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barca x reader, platonic!alexia putellas x reader

warnings: talks of narcotics addiction, angst, depression

Spain is different. It’s more freeing than France ever was, less dark. There isn’t the same constant bustle and stimulation that you were surrounded by in Paris. Paris was survival, but Barcelona is the weird halfway between living and being alive. It’s the most alive you’ve felt in years, but yet you still hover a few metres below the surface. Drowning is still drowning no matter how deep you are.

Barcelona was a shock to put it lightly. After Paris, after the mess that had been your life and then had turned into your career your everything had blown up. A good situation for you was showing your face outside of your apartment, maybe kicking a ball around again if you could work up the courage. You’d never thought that you would get another shot at football, it just hadn’t been an option in your mind. You were blacklisted in the world of soccer, whilst it wasn’t public knowledge why, courtesy of PSG being extremely cautious of keeping a good public image, it was well known that your leave had been anything but honourable.

You really hadn’t kept up with any football afterwards, hell you hardly kept up with anything when you were playing, but supposedly Barcelona had fallen into a crisis of major season ending injuries and were struggling to find money to acquire many players.

You weren’t even aware you had an agent anymore, you certainly weren’t paying agents fees, yet the calls came, and the door knocking, and the zoom meetings, and the visits and eventually a hasty contract signing was done half an hour after you’d hopped on a plane to Barcelona.

It was over a year since you’d stepped foot on a football pitch, possibly a year and a half since you’d trained with a team.

Your new teammates, who you hadn’t bothered to touch up on all , stood to the sides and watched you train for the first time, getting in some private time with Pere before your first proper training session.

“She played in Lyon, no?”

You were a bit of a mystery, the first the team had heard of you was the day before when Pere had alerted them that you would be joining the squad along with some girls from the Barca B side. Afterwards, in the locker rooms they’d tried to find as much information as they could, but the most they could find was your wikipedia page. No social media, no interviews, no features on other players' social media, nothing. You were an enigma, this person that seemingly existed yet none of them could put a face to your name.

“No, PSG, Liverpool beforehand, remember?”

You’re rough at the edges, that much is clear. With your mane of hair in a ponytail that looks like it’s seconds away from falling from your head yet it never does. The ear piercings adorning every single inch of cartilage and tissue along your ear and the tattoos that don’t seem to stop or start.

“And she played for England?”

You don’t look English, not in how you play. You’re so… edgy? You play like you’re straggling to do everything, like you know what it is to struggle.

“Up until U23s, had a short stint in the senior team before she retired.”

Your eyes are bloodshot, like you don’t know what sleep is. It’s almost endearing and yet terrifying in the same way. In an odd way it reminds Alexia so much of Jenni, you look and play nothing like her, but it’s the same ferocity, the same hunt in your expressions.

“And she’s only 21?”

It’s hard to believe that you are the same age as Esmee or Salma, you just look so much older. Like you’ve seen so much more than that.

“Stop leering at her, how would you feel if we all did this to you on your first day?”

Irene’s voice seems to be enough to shake everybody out of their trance hovering to the side of the training ground. You’ve noticed everybody, but you shake it off in the same way you seem to shake off every comment from Pere and every ball you lose. Alexia smiles at you when you look over at her, your facial expression doesn’t deviate from the same pulled back that it’s been stuck in since Alexia started watching you.

You don’t know why you thought you were capable of doing any kind of football, yet alone trying to compete with the best football players in the world. Training with Pere on your own had been brutal enough, you were unfit to put it simply and fearful in a way you’d never been before. Then introducing some of the best midfielders and forwards to your game, well it was a recipe for disaster.

By the time you made it to your first drink break your lungs were burning more from intake of oxygen then exhaling. Your calves are cramping up like they’ve never been used for more than walking and you feel like you’re one sprint away from hurling up your whole stomach's contents.

By the time you make it to the end of training you seriously feel like you might be dying, potentially dramatic but you’ve genuinely never hated your body more than you do.

You leave the field as soon as you’ve been assisted, you want to leave. You’re here for one simple reason, money. Barcelona were desperate and whilst your salary wasn’t anything exorbitant it was enough to guarantee that you would be able to live off of yourself for a few more years before you figured out what to do with your life beyond football.

You’d been shown the locker rooms on your tour, but you don’t bother. You duck into the first bathroom you can find, tugging your cleats off and throwing them into the same carry-on bag you’d gotten through the airport. Your training gear comes off next, you switch it for the spare clothes you’d left in your bag. You feel disgusting, you want a shower and a bottle of vodka. You’d rather feel disgusting though then be thrown into a room of women who you’ve never met and don’t intend to make friends with.

You try to sneak away as easily as possible, but you get caught when you run into a few of your teammates on your way out.

“Hola.”

You would love to pretend that you don’t notice the three people walking your way but it’s hard when you’ve already made eye contact.

“Hey.”

You hope that’ll be it, you try and make it past the three of them but it’s hard when they’ve all stopped directly in front of you expectantly.

“I’m-.”

This is what you want to avoid.

“Alexia Putellas, I don’t live under a rock.”

The woman seems to falter at the sound of your voice, you don’t mind the shocked look on her face.

“Well it’s nice to meet you. This is Jana and Vicky.”

You nod at the other two, Vicky you’re familiar with from your time in the England team, though not enough that you can remember ever playing against her.

“Cool.”

The three women are very clear about their discomfort around your bluntness, it’s good, it’s what you want.

“We-The team, were going to head down to a favourite bar of ours later, weekend off and all, we’d love it if you could join?”

Jana nods along with Alexia and Vicky just smiles.

“The food is to die for and if you’re lucky Alexia will drink enough that she’ll shout our tab.”

Alexia hits Vicky over the back of the head and Vicky looks like she’s about to lunge to retaliate but one darting look at you from Jana stops her.

“I don’t drink, and I don’t do dinners.”

Both Vicky and Jana frown, as if you’ve directly said something to offend them. Alexia looks less surprised.

“Well plenty of the team don’t drink, Irene and Marta and Ingrid.”

You decide you’ve had enough socialisation.

“Thanks but no thanks, if you know what I mean.”

None of the three women know what you mean, and you leave them wondering as you push past the wall to escape their eyes.

“I heard that she was fucking one of the trainers, and they got caught by one of the coaches.”

“I heard that she was stealing from the girls on the team, taking stuff and selling it on ebay.”

“I heard that she went off of her meds and had a breakdown and cursed out the coach.”

“I heard that she-.”

You’re the topic of conversation for the night, your absence from dinner has left such a point of intrigue that even after food and drinks everyone still keeps coming back to it.

“Stop it, you’re all horrible, you’re all making stuff up.”

The younger girls have been the main ones fueling it, there’s so little information on you that it’s so easy to fall into a rhythm of rumours and whispers.

“Ellie, she played in England, surely you know something?”

Ellie’s normally a quieter presence at team events, and as all the eyes fall to her she’s very glad that she hardly harnesses the attention of the group.

“Absolutely not, I’m not feeding into your theories. If you want to know something, ask her yourself.”

The younger girls all groan, Alexia knows why, they’re all far too scared to ask you a single thing, even she's hesitant. With most of the new girls she takes up a caring role, helping people during their transition. Yet even with your number in her phone, courtesy of the team's manager, she can’t find any words that would be appropriate to send to you.

“C’mon Roebuck, you must know something.”

Ellie does, Alexia can just tell by the way she itches at her neck and reaches for her drink immediately.

“I know that she’s been through a lot and definitely didn’t plan on playing football again. That’s all I’m saying.”

Even though you’re rough, and play in such a way that Alexia can’t quite find words for. You have natural talent, it’s raw, but even as you’d struggled she’d seen it.

Then she’d inevitably gotten curious, and went into a deep dive of watching old PSG game videos in search of something. She’d found it, or she’d found you. She wasn’t quite sure how you’d alluded her two years ago, because as she watched game video after game video, she saw magic. There was so little footage and even less of you in an England shirt, but what’s there is brilliant. There’s less of the push and shove, more refined but it’s the same player.

She doesn’t like being left in the dark when it comes to teammates or people in her life, yet when it comes to you she’s completely lost, and extremely curious.

“Ellie’s right, it’s none of our business and if we want to know we should ask her or wait for her to tell us, she’s clearly guarded from past experiences.”

Irene’s voice has the kind of finality that tells everybody the discussion is over. The conversation shifts to something about the upcoming Champions League fixtures and you’ve once again stayed a closed book to everybody.

Alexia would love to say she has a breakthrough with you, but she doesn’t, not for a week.

For the first week it’s fairly quiet. One training or gym session a day. It’s not until 8 days after your arrival that the team has a day longer than a single session, forcing you to stick around for team lunch.

You’re sitting at your own table, headphones on and head stuck in your phone when Alexia comes in after some time in the physio room.

Instead of heading straight towards her normal table she beelines towards you.

You look up at her as she sits down across from you, give Alexia a bit of a squint and then look back down at your phone.

“How are you finding it here?”

You don’t even flinch at Alexia’s voice, and for a second she’s a bit taken aback by your rudeness. But then she remembers you have headphones on.

Alexia foot nudges you from under the table and you try to not look utterly pissed off as your eyes lift from your phone.

Her lips are moving and apparently she’s talking to you and whilst you have zero wishes to converse with her you have enough decency to reach up and slide your headphones off.

“You’re settling in okay?”

You’re glad she can speak English because you haven’t bothered to attend any of the Spanish lessons that the club has set up for you. You’re happy in your blissful bubble.

“Fine.”

You attempt to slide your headphones back on but Alexia’s voice stops you.

“You haven’t come to any of the team nights, we added the right number to the group chats, right?”

It’s almost laughable, how Alexia is trying to pawn your antisocial behaviour off.

“No, you’ve got the right number.”

You hadn’t gotten any food, so you’re left to awkwardly sip at your water whilst Alexia ponders over how to respond to that.

“If Spanish is an issue, most of us speak english and we’re happy to translate, there are plenty of girls who speak english primarily.”

You pick at your nails and as Alexia focuses on you she takes in certain parts of your appearance. Your nail beds are a wreck, or more specifically your hands. You’ve clearly picked and bitten them to the point of bleeding, and even as you continue to pick at the scabs and scars you don’t flinch away whatsoever.

She also notices the way you’re always shaking, your hands, your legs, your arms, you don't stop moving, Your body is in a constant state of awakeness. It mirrors the same exhausted look on your face, it’s like how sharks never stop swimming, you never seem to stop moving.

The scars on your face extend up your arms, it’s hidden between the ink but there are little scabs everywhere, little white healed marks that fall so randomly across your skin it’s hard to keep track.

“Spanish isn’t an issue.”

Alexia knows nothing about you, and yet she feels this weird empathy towards you. She doesn;t know if it’s because you remind her of Jenni in some weird way that makes no sense, or if it’s just the ominous feeling you radiate but she just feels it.

“Look, I get if you feel overwhelmed by it all, this team is a lot. How about you come to my house tonight, just you and I. I’ll cook dinner, or we can order in. It’s got to be hard moving to a city all by yourself without anyone here for you.”

You don’t know why Alexia’s taken an interest in you and you are getting slightly ticked off by her insistence.

“I’m perfectly fine, I’ve been moving since i was 6 for football this is no different.”

This time you didn’t move for football though, you moved because for the first time in your life you had no other options. Every other time it had been because you had endless options, because you were that good that you were wanted. This was all you had though now.

“I just thought you might want some support, or a friend after what happened.”

Alexia is dipping a toe in the water, there’s still so many rumours going around about what’s happened with you. Not a single person has come up with a theory that has factual evidence, even the girls with friends at PSG have come up empty handed. Ellie knows something, but she’s a vault that cannot be opened and Alexia thinks she’s doing so for good reason.

“After what happened? Don’t talk about something you have absolutely no idea about, it’s an ugly look.”

Alexia exhales at the way your body language immediately shifts, your shoulders go tight and your picking at your nails becomes more incessant.

“Tell me then, or at least let me see a side of you beyond football, I’d love to get to know the person beyond all of this.”

Alexia doesn’t know enough about you to know how to interact best with you, but she’s trying.

“I don’t really give a shit what you or anybody else thinks about me and who I am.”

Alexia is screwing this up big time.

“Look, just come for dinner, I’ll send you the address to my house and you can stay for as long or as little as you like. I don’t know what it’s like to be new but I can’t imagine it’s easy. Come tonight and I’ll get you a free pass for all team dinners for the month, I know Pere must have bugged you about coming to the next one.”

You don’t know what’s worse, having to hang out with the whole team or individually with Alexia. You opt for the option that is less likely to put you into a sensory overload panic attack.

“Fine, I’ll come for dinner.”

Alexia smiles like she's a child who’s won a prize.

“Awesome, I’ll send you my address, how about 6?”

You nod along because you feel like you have to. There have been a lot of you doing things because you have to recently, it’s like you’re stuck in the never ending cycle of having to do things because of your past actions.

By the time 6 rolls around you’re sore, have a headache and generally feel so exhausted that you want nothing more than to crawl into your bed and stay there forever. It’s been hard to remove yourself from your routine, for the past year all you’d done was lie in bed all day. Eat, nap, go to NA, sleep. That was your life, four simple steps that held you together. Now though you were adding in a boatload more that you were struggling to handle.

Alexia’s door swings open before you even knock, you try to not feel intimidated by the big smile on her face but it’s hard. You’ve done the cat and mouse before with new teammates, this time though you really don’t have the energy for the charade.

“Hola, come in, come in.”

You allow yourself to be ushered into Alexia’s house, you try to take in your passing surroundings. Alexia’s house is very… spanish? The entryway is fairly simple, photos here and there but the decor is fairly simple. As you enter her living room and kitchen though you get more of a sense. There are jerseys and trophies dotted in random spots, photos and paintings fill the walls and overall the feeling of the house is warm. It’s a big difference from your clinical apartment, which is as bare as it was when you’d moved in.

“Do you want something to drink? Wine, beer, water, tea?”

You doubt Alexia’s abilities to make tea the proper way, and anything with alcohol is an immediate no for you.

“Water is just fine.”

You settle against Alexia’s island counter, leaning against the stone top as she picks two glasses from her shelves.

“I’m warming up some of my Mami’s paella, trust me once you try it you’ll be back for more.”

You can’t take away from the fact that whatever is cooking on Alexia’s stove smells delicious.

“Smells good.”

Alexia smiles, up until this interaction all you’ve seen of her is football. Football awards, football games, football training. It’s weird seeing her outside of football, especially considering how you’d come to idolise her a few years ago.

“Thank you. I thought it was about time I gave you the proper introduction to some proper Spanish food.”

You don’t know if you're still in denial or if you just don’t care, sometimes it’s hard to distinguish between feelings for you. You do know though that the last thing on your list of discovering Spain has been food.

Alexia hands you your glass of water and the two of you fall into a weird silence.

“That’s your girlfriend?”

It’s all you can think of, there’s a photo right in front of you sitting on the island of Alexia and another woman who you’ve never seen before, in a hug that seems too intimate to just be friends.

“Sí, that’s Olga, she’s in Madrid right now for work.”

You nod, it’s odd in your world for people to not be dating other players. Less messy you suppose.

“How about you?”

You laugh, it’s almost funny, and then it’s kind of sad.

“I did, not anymore.”

Not anymore is kind of everything in your life. Your decisions have meant that you don’t get a lot of things, you don’t get the nice things.

Alexia cooks in silence, you observe her house in silence. It could be awkward but it’s not, it’s nice in a way that you haven’t experienced in such a long time. Even when you weren’t off the rails in Paris there were so many barriers between you and your teammates, it was impossible to feel like you weren’t alone.

Alexia plates up the meal and ushers you over to her dining table.

The meal starts silent, but eventually Alexia starts talking.

“So have you been living in Paris or did you move back home after PSG?”

You mostly pick at the food, your appetite nowadays is hardly there, you just can’t stomach most things.

“No, I got out of Paris as soon as I could. Was in London for a while and then mostly in Liverpool.”

Alexia nods thoughtfully, it’s impossible to feel like she isn’t interviewing you. You could ask her some questions back, but there isn’t a single one that comes to mind. You have no interest in learning more about this woman because it does nothing for you.

“Did you like it?”

Your eyebrows furrow, did you like moving from place to place because of your own actions?

“Did I like what?”

You push some of the rice and seafood around your place, the one bite you did take was delicious, but you really don’t want to lose your guts in a teammate's house.

“Paris, I’ve only really been for awards ceremonies.”

You chuckle, Ballon d’ors, Alexia’s well decorated with the awards. You’d wanted that once, it had been a realistic dream for you once, the past was a dangerous thing.

“That’s a can of worms that you don’t want to open.”

You wonder if the saying gets lost in translation as Alexia looks at you completely lost.

“What I mean is that we really don’t want to get into that, you really don’t want to get into that with me.”

Alexia looks even more lost, the silence all of a sudden feels a lot more awkward then it did.

“You got hurt?”

Alexia doesn’t know a thing, she genuinely feels so lost when it comes to you.

“I got hurt, and then I hurt myself, and then I hurt some other people and some other people hurt me.”

Alexia hasn’t learnt anything more, but she understands, as she looks into your eyes she understands to some extent what you’re saying.

“I’m sorry that happened to you, when you can’t hold it in anymore I’m here for you. I might not understand but I can try, or just be here for you when it’s too much.”

You have dinner at Alexia’s house twice a week every week after that. She sticks by her promise of having you excused from all the team dinners and the two of you develop a sort of understanding. She doesn’t push you to say anything, most of the time the conversation is surface level and about things that neither of you need to talk about but talk about anyways. You meet Olga and Alexia’s family, which is a bit overwhelming but you figure you need to branch out at some stage.

You don’t touch the field in your first month at Barcelona, the team is in injury trouble but they aren’t so desperate that they need you. You exist behind the scenes, avoid all the media team and teammates. Eventually though, inevitably really, photos of you surface and whilst it was public knowledge that you’d signed with Barcelona, pictures of you at training seems to be the sign of life that everyone in the football world needs. Your messages and emails flood, it’s the only way to contact you. Old England teammates, Paris teammates, Liverpool teammates, academy teammates. It’s overwhelming in the sense that people who knew that a year ago you were struggling and never reached out are all of a sudden interested now that you’re playing with the best team in the world.

It’s not until 6 weeks after your move that you get told to warm-up on the sidelines during the 50th minute of a game against Valencia. You try not to look shocked as Pere calls out your name around the 60th to go towards the substitute section.

You play like shit, or at least that’s how it feels. You’re sloppy, get messy fouls and add nothing to the team. You’re still unfit, still scared, still look like a feral dog as you run around the field and try to adapt to the style of your teammates around you.

After the game you do the same as you always do, pack up as quickly as possible, avoid every person that exists alongside you and get your ass out of the stadium before you have a breakdown.

You go home, and whilst you’ve had hundreds of bad games, far worse than the one you just played, you can’t shake the overwhelming feeling of shame as you look around your depressing apartment and think about everything that’s led you to this point.

You go to the only other place in Barcelona that you know besides the training grounds.

You don’t quite know how to feel when you knock on Alexia’s door, you don’t even know if she’s going to be home. You just know that you’re short circuiting, and a year ago if you were short circuiting you defaulted to a certain behaviour that you have no interest in engaging in now.

You stand on Alexia’s front porch, shaking and on the verge of tears for a few seconds before you hear noise on the other side of the door.

Olga’s the one who opens the door, and suddenly you feel a lot more vulnerable than you did a few minutes ago. You’re not a vulnerable person, ever, you’ve been through enough to hold standards for yourself now. You suddenly feel so stupid, like you’ve defied every rule you’ve ever set up for yourself.

“Hey Chica, come in.”

You take a step back, and you’re ready to bolt.

“I-Is Alexia here?”

You don’t normally feel your age, you matured so young that you’ve never really felt your age. But at this moment you feel so young, so much more inexperienced than you are.

“Yeah carino, she’s just inside. Come in, please.”

Olga manages to coo you into the house. Over the past few weeks you’d say that you’ve slowly become comfortable in Alexia’s home, but right now you’ve never felt more out of place. As soon as you spot Alexia though, you crumble.

Alexia’s brows furrow at the sight of you, Olga’s hand wrapped around your shoulders in an attempt to keep you inside the house.

“Hey chica.”

You don’t know what to say, because if you say anything it’s probably all going to start coming out in one big mess.

“How about you come outside with me?”

You can’t say no, so you follow Alexia blindly out onto her balcony. She takes a seat on one of the loungers and you opt for sitting on the one beside it.

Alexia’s never seen you shaken up. Yet the girl sitting beside her looks completely terrified. Your whole body is shaking, your hands are bloody and torn up, you have scratch marks all over your arms and face, your eyes are dark in a weird way and for the first time since she’s met you she can see the 21 year old in you.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You don’t know how to answer that question, because you really don’t. You haven’t talked to anybody about it, not your sponsor, not your therapist, not your coaches, not your teammates, nobody. But right now all you want to do is talk about it, just voice everything that feels like it’s holding you down.

“I don’t know where to start.”

Alexia’s never given you a hug, you don’t seem like the kind of person who enjoys physical contact, but all she wants to do at this moment is bring you in, in any attempt to make you feel less distraught.

“Start wherever it makes sense.”

Nothing really makes sense to you.

“I went to Paris because I wanted freedom. My parents, everybody was in England and I felt strangled. Paris was good, I felt good when I went there. I was playing well, I was on track. Then I picked up a tear in my tricep, it was nothing to my game, but it hurt, so they gave me a prescription for painkillers, narcotics to get me through. Everyone in Paris was always drinking, always partying, always doing. I never slept, I never rested, it was football then parties and that was it. The doctor at PSG kept refilling my script, all they cared about was me playing on the field and I thought for a long time that the only way I could do that was by taking the pills and the doctor told me that. He didn’t care that I was abusing, that I was taking eight pills a day to get me through. Even after my tricep had healed, he kept filling them. Sure, I knew I was abusing but they validated me, I just kept taking them. I was so addicted I couldn’t go two hours without popping a pill. I would literally wake up every hour during the night just to take another.”

Alexia just sits and listens, it’s the first time you’ve ever brought up anything from the past in front of her.

“Then I got invited to England senior camp for the first time and they ran all my baseline medical tests and I popped up for having opiates in my system. I flipped out, they accused me of being an addict, I lost my shit. Screamed at Sarina, screamed at everybody else when they told me I needed help. I was so high, all the time, I was living in an alternate reality in Paris where I was floating on this cloud of constant drug fueled ecstasy. It felt like I was being tugged into a reality I had no interest in. Sarina called our PSG coach, who acted like he had no idea that I’d been abusing, as if he hadn’t been the one signing off on it all. Told Sarina that I was ungrateful and that I was a loose cannon and couldn’t be trusted, that I’d been fucking around my whole time there. The same guy who had been telling me that I was the future of the team and the person he trusted most on the field and he went behind my back and turned on me. Held a meeting the next day and turned the whole team on me as well. My girlfriend never spoke to me again, and said she had no clue who I was. My teammates all unfollowed and blocked me. Every physio, the team doctor, the coaches, the trainers, they all axed me. Sarina sent me back to Paris and my contract had already been terminated on ‘mutual’ grounds. The only thing PSG did was pay for me to be admitted to a 8 week rehab facility. By the time I was out my apartment had been sold, I had nobody in Paris to support me and everyone I knew had turned their back.”

Alexia doesn’t know what to say, she’s in a state of shock, because everything that you're telling her is horrible.

“I had offers from other teams, training spots, and other things. Sarina reached out but I was so mad I cursed her out and told her I would rather die than ever play in an England shirt again. I was so scared of getting injured again, getting addicted again, taking pills again. It wasn’t football that scared me, it was the same situation happening again that petrified me. So I just faded into the background. But then Barcelona called, and I couldn’t turn the offer down, I would have been stupid to. But now I’m terrified, I’m sick to my stomach thinking about all the bad things that could happen. Pere’s been supportive, and everyone else is lovely but that didn’t stop it from happening the first time.”

Your lip is bleeding now and you feel like you might actually vomit. You haven’t told anybody what you just told Alexia, somebody you met six weeks ago and have zero connection to besides the very little time you spend at her house every week.

Alexia looks at you, looks at your body shaking like a leaf. The way you clutch onto your t-shirt and tug at the hem of your pants every few seconds.

“Come inside with me for a minute. Sit down at the table.”

You follow Alexia inside, she leaves you alone in her living area, sitting at her dining table for a few minutes before she returns with a tub in her hands.

Alexia sits down across from you, pulling your hands into her own in a weird way that makes you slightly uncomfortable.

“You didn’t deserve to be taken advantage of, you didn’t know better, you were so extremely young. You did not deserve what happened to you.”

Alexia reaches into the tub and pulls out a selection of nail polish bottles.

“Pick a colour.”

You're extremely confused, but you try not to show it.

You point to a dark red, almost brown, and Alexia nods her head.

“Olga paints my nails before every big game, it stops me from getting distracted. Gives me something to pick at if I’m nervous.”

You don’t quite know what it has to do with you but you nod along with her explanation.

Alexia uses a towel to clean up the mess that is your cuticles before applying a base coat.

“I’ve never had an addiction so I can’t tell you that I understand what you’ve gone through. What I can tell you is that you are not your addiction, and you are not defined by the actions you took in the past because of your addiction. You are allowed to be a different person to the person you were a year ago. We are always evolving as people. The person you were a year ago is not the person you are now.”

The varnish burns a bit when it connects with the parts of your fingers that are still open scars and cuts, you don’t flinch away from the pain though, not once.

“There is no point in being afraid of your past. Without your past you are not here, our past is what helps us learn. You’ve learnt that you can’t afford to be haphazard with pain medications, the fact that you can admit you had a problem is enough to show that you don’t want to be that person again. There is no validity in being afraid of a person you do not want to be. My uncle, he is a chain smoker, I know that I do not want to be the same but I do not live in fear that one day I will be him because that is not who I choose to be. You can make a choice and decide that your past is unchangeable but it no longer defines you. You do not want to be that person, correct?”

Alexia is gentle for the most part, focused as always as she covers each nail in the polish. It’s so platonically intimate, you feel so open in front of her.

“I don’t want to be that person.”

Alexia smiles, you really want to pick at your nails, it’s the first time in months that for longer than three minutes you haven’t fed into the habit.

“When I tore my ACL I chewed gum, every hour of every day. I couldn’t handle the sitting and the waiting and the lack of stimulation I was getting. It was horrible, my mouth would get all burnt and tingly from the mint flavouring and my jaw would get sore. It was awful, until Olga started painting my nails, and I started picking at the nail polish instead. It wasn’t the same but it gave me something to do when I would get antsy. I’m not saying stop, I’m saying that it’s not sustainable to be in a constant state of harming yourself, try this instead. Mapi uses stress balls when she does her knee, Kika taps her fingers, Ingrid braids hair. There are replacements.”

You want to point out that the pain is what makes your habit good, it gives a bit of relief from the constant fog you live in, but it doesn’t seem valid.

“As for being afraid of getting injured, I can guarantee you, from the deepest part of my heart that if you get injured I will advocate for you. I’m assuming Pere knows about some of this, he will advocate for you. There will be systems in place to stop what happened to you last time from happening again. Our team is here for you in whatever capacity you like, this is a fresh start for you, you are allowed to be whoever you want, you can be you. At the very least I can guarantee that no matter what happens, if you go back to drugs tomorrow I will be there for you, I care for you enough to help you. You can’t live in fear of a hypothetical, not when there are so many opportunities here for you to have more, you can have your career back if you want it. It’s all about how much you are willing to give, because I can guarantee if you give it all then you can be as good as you were, probably better.”

Alexia finishes with your first hand and moves onto your second. If she notices the tears rolling down your face she doesn’t say anything.

“The team doesn’t hate me?”

Alexia looks up at you, her eyes twinkling.

“No carino, absolutely not. They wish you’d open up some more, but they don’t hate you. They understand you’ve been through a lot and that you’re struggling.”

Struggle. You don’t feel like you’re ever not struggling, struggle is the word that defines you in your brain.

“I want to be better, I want to not feel scared all the time, I want to feel free.”

It’s hard to admit, when you’ve been trying to convince yourself of the opposite for months but it’s all a clear lie. You don’t want to feel like shit all the time.

“I think we can work that out.”

Alexia’s solutions aren’t perfect, but as the weeks pass and the seasons change life gets better.

You start to pick up more minutes at the club, your game is improving at a rapid rate and you manage to find a spot in the starting eleven. Alexia paints your nails at least three times a week, you pick at it at all hours, and sometimes you scratch or pick but overall it’s better. You branch out a bit as well, manage to find your place into multiple friend circles and connect with quite a few of the girls.

Kika decorates your apartment, Marta stocks your fridge with ‘proper’ food, Ingrid takes you shopping for clothes, Esmee goes book shopping with you and Mapi starts coming to your NA meetings with you when she has a spare night.

It’s so good, you settle into a lull for the first time in years.

You suppose comfort must be what comes to bite you in the ass.

It all lights up during a game against Levante.

You’re standing in the box for a free kick when a player pins your arm behind your bag and tugs, hard.

As soon as it happens you know exactly what's wrong. You know the feeling all too well.

The pain is the same excruciating feeling you’ve already experienced, you’d been doing so good, it had all been so good, until now.

You drop to the ground, you can feel the pain but it’s not what you're focusing on. All of the memories of the last year of your life flash right before your eyes like a movie, and you feel panic-stricken.

You feel like the exact same person you were a year ago, all the progress, all the changes, it’s all gone.

The medics come to your side in a matter of seconds, but you can’t talk, you can’t think, you can’t breathe.

It’s happening again. It’s all happening again. Everything you’d been running from is back.

The medics manage to pull you over to the sideline, they ask their questions but you can’t respond, you can’t think about anything besides your biggest fear now coming to fruition.

Everything had been so good. Hell, Sarina had come to watch you today, Pere was in talks with your agent about extending your contract, you were looking at new apartments with longer leases, you were looking at leasing a car. It was all too perfect, everything was too good.

They manage to usher you into one of the seats in the dugout, but you’re in an almost catatonic state as they try and assess you.

“Oi, pequena, I need you to focus, you need to tell us what hurts.”

Alexia’s face in front of you manages to pull you out of it a bit. She was sitting out today's match out in precaution due to a hamstring issue.

“M-My tricep.”

Alexia's face dims a bit, like she knows exactly what’s going through your head because it’s flashing through her own.

“Okay, it’s okay. Let’s get you back down into one of the physio rooms. I’m here, I’m coming with you, I’m here for you.”

Your brain feels heavy, every thought feels heavy. You’re so numb the pain is gone, the only thing that matters is what is about to happen, what could happen.

Alexia leads you out of the stadium and into the tunnel, the medics flank her on either side and lead you back into one of the medical rooms.

“Carino, the doctors need to examine your arm. They’re just going to look at it to make sure that nothings broken, okay? You’re being so brave for us right now, I just need you to hold on for a bit.”

Alexia goes to let go of you but you hold on. You don’t know what to say but she seems to understand.

“I’m staying okay, just let me move so that there’s some room.”

Alexia moves to the side of you, sitting down next to you on the physio bed you're perched on and interlocking your good hand with hers.

The medics are quick, you can hardly feel them.

“It’s probably a tear of some degree to her tricep. She'll need scans, we can get her a green whistle to deal with the pain now before we take her to the hospital for scans.”

Pain. Medication. Drugs. Addiction.

Chronic. It’s all a chronic issue. Addiction is chronic by nature, you have a chronic addiction that you will never be able to out live. You are in a cycle, and this is just the beginning of a new one. This was bound to happen, you knew this was going to happen, you were fearful for a reason. You are chronically living in your past, it’s going to keep happening over and over again. You could have avoided this if you weren’t greedy, if you weren’t so greedy this could have been avoided.

“No pain medication, nothing.”

The medics furrow their brows.

“Can you give us a minute, alone, please?”

The medics look hesitant but one glance from Alexia seems to convince them.

As soon as they’re gone Alexia lifts up from the bench next to you, her knees bumping with yours as she stands in front of you.

“I promised you I would be your advocate, right? I am here to support you. I am here to make sure that nothing happens that you don’t want. I know you’re up on adrenaline right now but your tricep is torn pequena, and in a few minutes it’s really going to hurt. The green whistle will stop that, it’s not drugs, it’s not your addiction. I will be with you every step of the way, but you don’t need to suffer. Whatever this is, I promise you it’s going to be okay. I am here to stop what happened last time from happening. I am here for you. Okay?”

You don’t know if you believe her, you don’t know if you can. Last time you were supposed to trust in other people to keep you safe. You couldn’t trust somebody to do the same this time around.

“Chica, look at me. Only at me. You’re going to take the whistle, not because you are an addict but because you are in serious pain. I’m going to come to the hospital with you and I will make sure that everything that happens is in your interest okay? No pills, if you don’t want pills, we will make it work.”

You concede, because the pain is starting to overwhelm you and you trust Alexia, properly trust her.

The green whistle helps, it helps you to feel less like you’re on the verge of a panic attack and it helps the team doctors to do a better inspection of your arm. They decide it definitely isn’t broken and that once the match has concluded they will take you straight to the hospital. Alexia sits with you for it all.

When the game does conclude Alexia walks you out and straight to the car of one of the medical staff. You’re both stopped on the way there though, by Sarina.

You feel like you’re going to hurl, but to throw being face-to-face with somebody you have so much shame for, you literally think you may vomit.

Alexia feels the way you tense up, and whilst she wants to pull you away she also doesn’t want to strip you from an opportunity that is clearly here for you. She’s watched you work your ass off for this moment.

“Ms Sarina, she would love to talk to you but we have to get her to the hospital.”

Alexia doesn’t really know what to say to the woman, she doesn’t want to say anything on your behalf.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, I’m very impressed with you y/n, you’ve come a long way and if this isn’t too much of a setback it would be great to have you back in England at some point.”

You laugh, Alexia isn’t sure whether it’s the pain medication or just you, but you laugh, loudly and obviously.

“Wait, really? After what happened?”

Sarina smiles, in the way that makes Alexia feel comfortable.

“I’ll call you, we can talk about it, but it’s clear you’ve come a long way and there is no reason why your past should define you.”

Alexia smiles to herself, it’s the same thing she’s been telling you for weeks now, but hearing somebody else tell you it as well makes her think she must be doing something right.

“Thank you Sarina, thank you so much.”

The scan confirms what you already know, which is that your tricep has a tear through it. The only saving grace is that it’s not a full tear so you don’t need surgery. You cry when the doctor tells you, properly, full body sobs.

It can’t be happening again. You can’t survive it happening again.

You wait around in the hospital with Alexia for a few hours whilst the Barca medical team talks with the hospital team to figure out what your best course of action is.

You don’t know what to say to Alexia, you don’t know how to articulate just how sickeningly horrific this all is, about how reliving the worst part of your life is. She seems to understand though, you figure that she can at least relate to having a major injury impact a person's career. Even though it wasn’t your injury that affected your career, but the support system around you.

Some of your teammates flow in and out to come and check on you, you don’t pay much attention, you really can’t. You feel so utterly consumed by it all, in a way that you can’t comprehend in any way.

When the physios come out they ask to talk with you and you can’t really say no. All you want is to go home, or go to Alexia’s house. You need some space to be vulnerable enough to process the shitstorm that’s happening in your life.

“We’ll keep this short because it’s late. Our concern is purely with your mental and emotional health. If you don’t want to play through this then you do not have to. We can make a plan for you to but if that’s not what you want then you can take the time off. If you want to play then we will support you but we are also going to be conscious of your past. You’ll need pain medication but we’ll keep it in small amounts and it will be handed out only by the physios and in strict doses. Past week three you’ll be slowly weaned off, in the proper way. We can coordinate with your sponsor as well if that’s what you’d like and we can find a specific psychologist who specialises in addiction to come in to see you. This is all about what is going to make it easiest for you. We want you to be able to rehabilitate however it’s going to be easiest for you.”

Everything they are saying, it’s all too good. You feel like you can breathe, a little bit. It’s too much, it’s so different to what you’ve experienced in the past. Overwhelmingly different in all the good ways that make you sad that you didn’t have it in the past when you needed it the most.

You cry, it feels good.

Alexia hugs you, properly hugs you for the first time and you let yourself seek out the comfort you need.

“It’s over carino, it’s all over, you’re okay, you’re going to be okay.”

You don’t know what to say, you’re actually at a loss for words. Crying seems to do it for now, it feels like enough, when the time comes you’ll be grateful and so incredibly happy that you were put in a place that helped you so much. For now though, you just let yourself feel it all, because once you couldn’t, and you refuse to be that same person, you refuse to let your past dictate who you are now.

we are the only team in europe to have won the champions league on both the men and women's side, and now both teams are into the semis! 💙 ❤️ 

this might take the CROWN 👑 of all fics

Apart of Perfect Shot Series

Baby Girl Putellas-Segura is here

It started quietly—so quietly—you weren’t even sure at first.

You woke up before the sun, the room still cloaked in the deep grey of early morning. The house was silent, peaceful, the only sound the rhythmic breath of Alexia beside you, her arm draped protectively over your bump like it had been for months now.

But something felt… off.

Not painful, not at first. Just pressure. A strange, deep ache that rolled low in your belly and made you shift beneath the covers.

You lay still, blinking up at the ceiling, one hand drifting to your bump. You whispered softly, barely a breath, “Are you getting ready, little one?”

Another wave hit—not sharp, not dramatic, but undeniable.

You pressed your lips together, your heart picking up its pace.

Could this be it?

You reached for your phone and checked the time. 4:17 a.m.

For the next hour, you lay there quietly, timing each wave of pressure—growing a little stronger, a little longer, a little closer.

At 5:04, one came that made you really grip the edge of the mattress. You sucked in a breath and exhaled slowly, biting back a sound. 

That one felt real.

That one woke Alexia.

She stirred beside you, murmuring groggily, “You okay?” as she blinked herself awake.

You turned your head toward her, your face calm but your eyes glassy.

“I think I’m in labour.”

Alexia was up instantly. There was no slow waking. No sleepy blinking. Just full alertness, all hands and care, her voice suddenly clear and serious. “Are you sure?” she asked, already climbing out of bed and throwing on the first hoodie she could find.

You nodded, voice soft and shaking. “They’ve been getting stronger for the last hour.”

She was at your side in a second, kneeling beside the bed, her hands already on you, grounding you. “Okay. Alright. We’ve trained for this. You’re okay. We’re okay.”

You laughed softly, even through the rising tension. “You sound like you’re going into a final.”

She kissed your knee. “This is a final.”

The next contraction came while you were brushing your teeth. You doubled over the sink, gripping the edge as Alexia rubbed firm, soothing circles into your back.

The hospital bag was already packed—she made sure of that weeks ago. She loaded the car while you paced in the living room, stopping every few minutes to breathe through a contraction, her voice constantly in your ear: “Inhale. Exhale. That’s it. You’re doing so good, mi amor.”

By the time you reached the hospital, the contractions were five minutes apart and sharp enough to take your breath away. But every time you looked at Alexia—her jaw tight with focus, her hand never leaving yours, her thumb brushing your skin in quiet reassurance—you felt stronger.

Admitted. Monitored. Settled.

The nurse smiled kindly as she checked your progress. “You’re definitely in labour,” she said, almost amused by your calm. “And you’re already four centimetres. You’re doing amazing.”

Alexia leaned down, her forehead resting against yours. “Four down,” she whispered. “We’ve got this.”

The day stretched ahead of you—filled with movement, breath, heat, pain, love. The waiting room slowly filled with people: Eli. Alba. Carla. All pacing, texting Alexia’s phone for updates, barely holding back their excitement. But inside that room, it was just you and Alexia and the slow, powerful rhythm of a life arriving. And deep down, with every breath, with every grip of her hand and her steady voice in your ear—you knew:

Your daughter was coming.

And you were ready.

The hours blurred into each other—slow and sharp, quiet and chaotic, all wrapped in the strange timelessness of labour.

Contractions came harder now, stronger. You gripped the side of the hospital bed, the cool metal grounding you as your body swayed forward through another wave. Your forehead pressed against Alexia’s chest, and her arms were around you, steady and solid, her voice whispering low in Catalan, words of encouragement, love, anchoring you.

“You’re doing so well, mi vida,” she breathed, kissing the crown of your head. “She’s almost here. Just keep going. I’ve got you.”

You wanted to believe her. And you did. You really did. Even when you cried. Even when your breath came out in sobs. Even when you clutched her hand so tightly you were sure it would bruise. She never flinched. Never let go. There was a moment—maybe hour six or seven—where it got hard. The kind of hard no one could’ve warned you about. The part where your body felt like it was made of lightning and stone, and everything inside you wanted to scream: I can’t do this.

You whispered it once, barely audible: “Lex… I can’t do this.”

She was crouched in front of you, her forehead pressed to yours, her eyes full of tears but her voice unwavering. “You can. You are. She’s coming. Just a little more.”

You held onto her voice like it was the last light in a storm. And then—finally—the shift. The nurse came in, checked again, and this time her face lit up.

“Alright, mamá,” she said gently, her hand on your knee. “You’re fully dilated. It’s time.”

Everything went very still. Alexia looked at you, her hand still in yours. “This is it.”

You nodded, tears running down your cheeks. “She’s really coming.” The room filled quickly—lights adjusted, nurses moving, voices giving instructions—but all of it faded behind the hum of adrenaline in your blood and the absolute focus in Alexia’s eyes as she stood at your side, her fingers gripping yours tightly.

You pushed. Again. And again.

And with each cry, each push, each burning second of effort, Alexia stayed with you—her forehead pressed to yours, her voice in your ear “Push, amor, you’re almost there. She’s so close. You’re so strong. Just one more—come on. Just one more for her.”

Then—The cry. Sharp, piercing, perfect. A sound that tore through the air and shattered every ounce of pain like sunlight breaking through rain.

You sobbed, gasped, cried out as they lifted her—tiny, slippery, wailing—and laid her on your chest, her little limbs trembling with life.

Alexia’s hand covered hers, and her face broke wide open, crumpling with tears.

“She’s here,” she choked out, laughing and crying all at once. “She’s here, mi amor.”

You looked down at your daughter, your hands trembling as you cradled her, her cries slowly quieting as your skin met hers.

She was everything.

The weight of her, the warmth of her, the reality of her.

“I love you,” you whispered to her, your tears falling into her soft, damp hair. “I love you so much.”

Alexia leaned in, kissing your temple, then your cheek, then the tiny bundle on your chest.

You turned to her, eyes soaked, cheeks flushed. “We did it”

Alexia’s breath caught. “We’re parents.”

Alexia leant down to look more closely at her daughter. The second their eyes met, something in Alexia broke in the most beautiful way. She clutched her tiny arm gently, her lips pressed to her tiny forehead, and whispered:

“Hola, mi vida. I’m your mami.”

And for the first time since it all began— The world was still. Just the three of you. Exactly as you were meant to be.

The room had settled into that rare kind of quiet—soft and sacred—the kind that only comes after something life-changing.

Your daughter lay bundled against your chest, her tiny body rising and falling in rhythm with yours, still so new to the world, so delicate and impossibly real. Alexia hadn’t stopped touching—her hand brushing your hair back, her fingers gently stroking the baby’s wrinkled little feet poking from the blanket. You’d both fallen silent, completely wrapped up in her: her smell, her warmth, her being.

A knock on the door broke through the stillness. A nurse peeked in gently, her smile warm but professional. “Hi, mamas,” she said softly. “Just checking in. How are you both feeling?”

Alexia glanced at you and smiled, exhausted but glowing. “Tired. Happy. Like we’ve just been run over by a miracle.”

The nurse chuckled and stepped closer, eyes dropping to the baby. “She’s beautiful. Has she fed yet?”

You shook your head. “Not yet. We’ve just been… holding her.”

“That’s okay,” she said kindly. “Would you like to try now?”

You nodded, your throat a little tight. “Yeah. Yeah, I think we should.”

Alexia shifted beside you, brushing your hand as the nurse helped guide you through the process—showing you how to position her, how to angle her head, how to wait for that instinctive little open mouth movement. You followed every step. Your hands trembled slightly as you brought her close, your breath catching as you tried to help her latch. She didn’t.

Instead, she squirmed, fussed, turned her head away. You tried again. And again. She cried—a soft, pitiful whimper that shattered you.

The nurse leaned over with gentle encouragement, whispering tips, guiding your hands, but nothing worked. You could feel your chest tightening, frustration building. You were doing everything right—why wasn’t it working?

You looked up, eyes brimming. “Why won’t she latch?”

“She’s just learning,” the nurse said softly. “You both are. It’s completely normal.” But the tears were already slipping down your cheeks.

“She needs me and I can’t even do this—” you choked, voice shaking. “This is the one thing I’m supposed to be able to do, and she’s… she’s hungry and she’s crying and—”

“Hey, hey,” Alexia was beside you in an instant, her arms wrapping around you and the baby, holding all three of you close like she could carry the weight of it. “Stop. You’re doing so well. You’re not failing. Look at me—look at me.” You did. Barely. Her eyes were already glassy too. “You just gave birth to her. She’s brand new. You’re both brand new. You’re allowed to learn together.”

You sniffled, pressing your forehead to hers. “I just… I want her to feel safe. To know she’s okay.”

“She does.” Alexia’s voice cracked. “She’s here. On your chest. Listening to your heartbeat. You’re home to her already.”

The nurse gave you a few minutes, then gently smiled again. “We can try again later, or I can help express some colostrum and feed her that. You don’t have to do this alone.”

You nodded slowly. “Okay. Thank you.”

Before the nurse left, she paused and smiled down at your daughter. “Has she got a name yet?”

You and Alexia looked at each other, then at the baby nestled against you. Both of you shook your heads.

“Still choosing,” you murmured. “Nothing’s felt… quite right yet.”

“That’s okay,” she said kindly, touching your shoulder. “You’ll know when it does.”

When the door closed again, the silence returned. Alexia gently rested her chin on your shoulder, her eyes still locked on your daughter.“She’s strong,” you whispered. “She knew how to fight her way into the world. She’ll figure this out.”

“She gets that from you,” Alexia said.

You kissed the top of your daughter’s head, whispering, “We’ll get it right, little one. I promise.” Even without a name, she was already the centre of your universe. And soon… the name would come. The one that was hers.

—

Alexia hesitated near the doorway, one hand still clinging to the edge of the frame, her body halfway turned back toward you and your daughter—clearly torn between going and staying. Her brows were pulled slightly together, that quiet worry she always carried when it came to you sitting just beneath her surface.

You smiled through your exhaustion, still cradling your baby girl against your chest. “Go, Lex. They’re waiting.”

“But—”

“I’ll be fine,” you interrupted softly, your voice thin but firm. “I promise. We’re just going to cuddle and keep trying. I’ll call if anything changes.”

Alexia stepped back toward the bed one more time, leaned down, and kissed your forehead. Then her hand swept gently over your daughter’s back, a whispered “I love you both” falling from her lips before she finally turned and slipped out the door.

The family room wasn’t far. It was a quiet space off the maternity ward, outfitted with vending machines, tired-looking couches, and warm lighting that was trying very hard to disguise how clinical the hospital still felt.

Inside, Eli stood pacing, her eyes flicking between the hallway and her phone, while Alba sat perched on the windowsill like a nervous cat. Carla was sprawled on a couch, clearly trying to act chill but bouncing her leg like she was seconds from exploding. A few of Alexia’s closest teammates were there too—Mapi, Ingrid, Irene—each of them chatting quietly but watching the door with the kind of tension usually reserved for extra time in a final.

The moment Alexia walked in, every head turned.

“Well?!” Alba practically shouted, leaping to her feet.

Alexia couldn’t help the smile that overtook her face. It was tired and emotional and completely soaked in awe. “She’s here,” she said softly.

A chorus of gasps and cheers rang out, and everyone rushed closer. “She’s okay?” Eli asked instantly, her eyes sharp with maternal urgency. “They’re okay?”

“They’re both perfect,” Alexia nodded, her voice cracking slightly. “Tired, but safe. She did so well.”

Eli exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for hours. Alexia stepped toward her and took her hand gently, squeezing it. “She’s okay, mamí. I promise. She’s exhausted and overwhelmed and trying so hard, but she’s okay.”

Eli blinked quickly, nodding, her throat bobbing with emotion. “I just… I needed to hear it from you. I was so worried.”

“She’s stronger than she thinks,” Alexia said softly, and the words came out so full of pride you could feel the love in the room shift.

“Can we see her?” Carla asked, already halfway out of her seat.

Alexia shook her head gently. “Not yet. The nurses want the baby to feed and be checked by the doctor first before any visitors go in.”

A collective sigh filled the room—some disappointed, but no one argued. Alexia smiled again, digging into the pocket of her hoodie.“But…” she said, pulling out her phone, “I can show you this.”

She held it out, and they all crowded close. The photo on the screen was simple: you, propped up against the pillows in your hospital bed, your hair a little wild, your face pale and damp with tears, but your expression so full of love it could stop time. And nestled on your chest—tiny, pink, blinking up at the world like it was all too bright already—was her.

Your baby girl.

There were gasps. Quiet sniffles. A few stunned, whispered “wow”s.

“She’s beautiful,” Mapi said softly, her hand over her mouth.

“She’s real,” Alba whispered, wide-eyed.

“She has your nose,” Ingrid added, nudging Alexia gently.

Alexia smiled, eyes misting again as she took her phone back. “We’re still deciding her name. But she’s everything already.”

Eli stepped forward, cupping Alexia’s face in her hands. “You’re everything,” she said. “The both of you. And she’s going to be surrounded by so much love.”

Alexia nodded, her voice low. “She already is.”

They sat together after that, the group of them huddled in that quiet family room—some laughing, some wiping away tears, all waiting for the moment they’d get to meet the little girl who had just arrived and already taken over all their hearts. And back in your room, holding her close against your chest, you whispered softly into the curve of your daughter’s ear:

“They’re ready for you, baby girl. Whenever you are.”

The door opened softly, and Alexia slipped back into the room, careful not to let it click shut behind her too loudly. The family had calmed—Eli had cried, Alba had nearly passed out from pacing, and everyone had promised to be patient for their turn to meet the baby her teammates promising to return tomorrow since it was late and they had an early training.

She expected to find you resting, maybe dozing off with your daughter nestled against your chest.

What she found instead was you, wide awake, eyes red and glossy, bottom lip trembling as you stared down at the tiny bundle of pink swaddling nestled between your legs on the hospital bed. Her chest tightened instantly.

“Mi amor…?” she said softly, crossing the room in two strides. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t look at her at first. Just kept staring down, blinking too fast, your breaths uneven.

Alexia perched on the edge of the bed, worry creeping into every line of her body. “Hey… talk to me. Are you in pain?”

You shook your head quickly and then, after a beat, your voice came, fragile and quiet. “She looks like him.”

Alexia frowned, confused. “Who—?”

You lifted your eyes to meet hers, and they were shining with tears. “Your dad.”

Alexia froze, her breath catching like it had been yanked from her lungs.

You glanced down at the baby again, gently running your thumb across her soft cheek, your hand trembling slightly. “Her nose. Her jaw. Even the way her little eyebrows sit. Lex… she looks like your dad.”

Alexia didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

You looked up at her again, tears slipping down your cheeks now. “I didn’t see it before, but now that she’s asleep—her face relaxed like that—I just… it hit me all at once. She’s his double.” Your voice cracked on the word. “I never got to meet him. But I feel like I’m holding a piece of him right now.”

Alexia's throat bobbed. Her eyes were wide, glassy, lips parted in stunned silence as she slowly turned her gaze to your daughter. She reached out with a trembling hand and gently brushed her finger along the baby’s tiny brow, her touch reverent.

And there it was. The shape of her eyes. The slight downward curve at the corners of her mouth. The arch of her nose—familiar in a way that felt almost impossible. “Oh my God,” she whispered, her voice breaking completely. “She does.”

You nodded, barely holding it together. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want to upset you. But I kept looking at her and I just—Lex, I wish he could see her. I wish he was here.”

Alexia let out a quiet sob, biting her lip hard as tears slipped down her cheeks. She leaned forward, one hand on your leg, the other gently cradling her daughter’s head as if she could feel him in her bones now—like somehow, through all the heartbreak and loss, he had made his way back to her, to you, through her. “I see him,” she whispered, her forehead resting lightly on your shoulder. “I see him so clearly.”

You wrapped your arms around her, holding her as tightly as you could with the baby curled between you both. Neither of you said anything for a while. The silence didn’t need filling. It was sacred. It was him.

Eventually, you leaned back just slightly, your voice a whisper. “Tell me she doesn’t look just like him.”

Alexia laughed softly through her tears, brushing her nose against yours, her eyes never leaving your daughter’s face. “She does,” she murmured. “But she also looks like us. And she’s going to grow up knowing exactly who he was.”

You nodded, reaching down to gently squeeze Alexia’s hand over your baby’s chest. “She already feels like she’s carrying his strength,” you said. “And your heart.”

Alexia looked down at her daughter, her voice catching as she whispered, “Papá would’ve loved her.”

And in that quiet, tear-soaked moment, the three of you sat in a tangle of love and memory—Alexia’s past meeting your future in the form of one tiny, sleeping girl who had unknowingly brought someone home.

The room was dim again, late afternoon light filtering through the half-drawn blinds, casting golden lines across the hospital bed. The noise from the corridor outside was distant now, muffled behind the closed door—just the occasional shuffle of feet or soft call from a nurse.

Inside your little cocoon, it was peaceful. Still.

You were exhausted, but a different kind of exhaustion now. The kind that came with hope, and softness, and the weight of a miracle lying warm in your arms. Your daughter stirred gently against your chest, her lips brushing your skin in that searching, instinctive way. You held your breath, your hand supporting the back of her tiny head, and guided her closer, just as the nurse had shown you hours earlier.

This time—finally—she latched.

Your body stiffened with the surprise of it. Then relaxed, like a wave had passed over you. No fussing. No turning away. No crying. Just her, finally feeding, like she’d known how all along and had simply needed the right moment.

Your eyes instantly filled with tears—this time not from frustration or fear, but from relief so deep it hit your bones. Alexia had been perched quietly beside you in the chair, one leg tucked under her, watching every second with bated breath. When she realised what had happened, her whole body jolted with joy—but she caught herself, clamping a hand over her mouth to stop from cheering aloud.

Instead, she did a silent fist pump.

Then another.

Then leaned forward and gently buried her face against your shoulder, her whole body trembling with relief and pride. Her voice came in a whisper, thick with emotion. “She’s doing it. You’re doing it.”

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I didn’t think I’d cry over this, but—God, Lex—it feels like everything.”

Alexia kissed your temple, then your cheek, then the side of your mouth, her hand cupping the back of your head like she needed to hold you in place, ground herself to this exact second. “She’s incredible,” she whispered.

“She is,” you murmured. Then, a beat. “And I think… I know her name.”

Alexia pulled back just slightly, her eyes wide, searching your face. “Yeah?”

You nodded, your fingers tracing gentle circles on the back of your daughter’s tiny neck. “I keep thinking about what your Mamí said months ago… when we were first talking about names. Sofía. I couldn’t stop hearing it in my head today. And now that I’ve seen her, now that I’ve felt her… I can’t picture her as anything else.”

Alexia blinked, her lips parting in soft surprise. “Sofía.”

You nodded again. “And… I thought we could give her your dad’s name, too. As her second. Juame. It’s soft. Strong. Timeless. And neutral. It belongs to her as much as it belonged to him.”

Alexia just stared at you, eyes glistening, lips trembling like she was trying not to fall apart completely. “Sofía Juame,” she whispered, the name barely audible, like a prayer. She said it again, a little firmer. “Sofía Juame.”

You watched her fall in love with the name in real time.

“She’s going to carry that name,” Alexia said, her hand resting over your daughter’s back. “She’s going to make it mean something. Just like he did.”

“She already does,” you said softly.

Alexia nodded, swallowing hard. Then leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of your daughter’s head. “Hola, Sofía,” she whispered. “Welcome to our little family, your furry brothers will love you.” And Sofía, as if she knew, let out the smallest, softest sigh against your skin—completely content.

“You like the name? Don’t just agree because I’ve just birthed her, please be honest”

Alexia gave you the softest smile, “I love her name, and I love that mami picked it and papa is involved to” You kissed before both staring down at the little girl feeding contently.

The room had grown quiet again.

Your daughter slept peacefully in your arms, her tiny chest rising and falling in slow, steady rhythm, one hand curled into the neckline of your hospital gown like she was already claiming you. You were completely wrapped in the moment, your body still sore but your heart so full it was hard to breathe.

A gentle knock came at the door and one of the nurses stepped in, her smile kind.

“Everything okay?” she asked, moving to check on the monitors with quiet efficiency.

You nodded, adjusting Sofía slightly in your arms. “She’s finally sleeping after feeding,” you whispered, pride and relief laced through your voice.

The nurse smiled wider, then looked to Alexia, who was perched on the edge of the armchair near the window, watching the two of you like she’d never blink again.

“Would you like to do some skin-to-skin time with her?” the nurse asked gently, directing it to Alexia.

Alexia blinked. “Me?”

“Of course,” the nurse said. “It’s not just for the birthing parent. It’s a great way for babies to start bonding with Mami, too.”

You watched Alexia’s face shift—surprise first, then something softer, something so deep it nearly cracked her open.

You nodded at her, smiling. “Do it. She’ll love it.”

Alexia hesitated only a second before standing, rubbing her hands together nervously as the nurse helped adjust the chair and handed her a fresh blanket.

She slipped off her hoodie, then her T-shirt, folding them carefully before sitting back down, now bare-chested and visibly emotional. Her skin was golden in the soft light, her breath uneven.

You carefully rose from the bed and walked the few steps to her, your arms wrapped tightly around Sofía. As you lowered her into Alexia’s waiting arms, something in your chest caught.  

Because the moment her skin touched Alexia’s, Sofía stirred.  

Just slightly. Her little head shifted, and a tiny sigh left her lips. Her cheek rested against her mami’s chest like it belonged there. Like she knew exactly who this was.  

Alexia froze.  

Her eyes welled instantly, her lips parting as she stared down at the impossibly tiny life pressed against her heart. One hand cradled Sofía’s head, the other instinctively resting across her back, holding her as gently as if she were made of glass.

“Hola.” she whispered, voice trembling. “Hola, mi pequeña.”

You sat on the bed, watching it all unfold—Alexia blinking rapidly as tears streamed down her cheeks, her breath catching in her throat.

“She’s so small,” she whispered, more to herself. “And she’s… ours. She’s really ours.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers over Alexia’s arm as Sofia settled deeper into Alexia’s chest.

“She knows you,” you said softly. “She’s known you since before she got here.”

Alexia looked at you then, her eyes full of something ancient and powerful and brand new all at once.

“I didn’t think I could love you more than I already did,” she whispered, “and then I saw you become her mamá.”  

Your hand slid into hers, holding her tightly as your daughter slept, skin to skin, heart to heart, between the two people who loved her more than anything in the world.

And for the first time since the moment she arrived—there was only peace.

The family room was quieter than it had been yesterday—less buzzing, more soft murmurs and tired smiles. It had the comforting stillness of early morning, when everything feels calmer, like the world’s holding its breath in reverence for something sacred. Alexia’s teammates long going home having to prepare for practice today leaving behind Eli and Alba.

Eli and Alba were seated side by side on the couch, deep in quiet conversation. Alba had her legs tucked under her, hair thrown in a messy bun, flipping through a baby magazine someone had left behind. Eli was staring absently at her phone, eyes tired but kind, tapping out a message that she clearly wasn’t in a hurry to send.

The door creaked open.

Eli looked up first—and stilled.

You stood just inside the threshold, one arm lightly gripping the nurse for support, the other resting protectively on your belly, even though the bump was now an empty cradle. You were pale, your hair loose around your shoulders, cheeks flushed from the effort of walking, but your eyes were shining. Raw. Brighter than they’d ever seen them.

Eli rose first. Slowly. Like she couldn’t quite believe you were real. Like seeing you there, on your feet, in the same clothes from yesterday and somehow more powerful than ever, was too much.

And then she moved—quickly, wordlessly—and before you could breathe, you were wrapped in her arms.

Tight. Warm. Solid.

You exhaled shakily into her shoulder, and it all came out. The tears. The ache. The overwhelming swell in your chest that had been building since the moment Sofía had been placed on your chest.

You sobbed. Not loud, not frantic—just helpless, soul-deep crying, the kind that came when you’d been brave for too long.

“I did it,” you whispered, your voice breaking open like a flood. “I really did it.”

Eli held you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head like she used to do with Alexia. “Of course you did,” she whispered. “You brought her here. You made her. She’s here because of you.”

You shook in her arms, overwhelmed by the weight of it all—of being a mother now, of the pain, the joy, the immensity of what you’d just done.

Behind you, the nurse stepped out, gently closing the door to give you the moment.

Alba was on her feet now too, watching quietly. And for once, she didn’t interrupt, didn’t fill the space with jokes or quips. She stepped closer slowly, her expression softer than you’d ever seen it.

She brushed your arm lightly. “You look like a woman who just performed a miracle,” she said gently.

You gave a breathy laugh through your tears. “I feel like one. A sore, emotional miracle.”

“You’re allowed,” Alba said. “You earned it.”

Eli eventually eased back, her hands still on your arms, her eyes glassy now too. “How are you feeling? Really?”

You sniffled, wiping your face, voice fragile but sure. “Like I’ve been cracked open. But like… like I’d do it again. In a heartbeat. For her.”

Alba smiled, her voice unusually soft. “She’s got no idea how lucky she is.”

You nodded slowly. “She will. I’ll make sure she does.”

Eli took your hand in both of hers and kissed it. “And we’ll make sure you know how proud we are. Of you. Always.”

You stood there with them, in a quiet pocket of the hospital, heart wide open and full of everything—grief and love and power and softness.

And down the hallway, you knew, Alexia was still holding your daughter to her chest, whispering the world into her ear.

And now you were ready to walk back to them.

Back to your girls. You looked up at them now, your voice soft.

“Do you… want to come meet her?”

Alba’s eyes lit up immediately, but she didn’t jump from her seat like she normally would have. Instead, she blinked fast, the smile she wore a little shaky.

“Are you sure?” Eli asked gently, as though she’d been waiting for your permission, even though her hands twitched like she wanted to run down the hallway.

You nodded. “She’s eaten. She’s sleeping. And I… I want you to see her. I know you want to have a cuddle with her desperately to”

Eli placed her hand over yours and squeezed it once, firmly. “We’d be honoured.”

You walked slower this time, without the nurse, but with your arms looped gently around theirs. The hall was quiet, and each step made your heart thrum with something that felt sacred.

When you turned the corner to your room, you noticed the door was already cracked open, soft light spilling out into the hallway.

You paused in the doorway first— and there she was.

Alexia stood near the window, bathed in the early morning light. One arm cradled against her chest, the other supporting your baby girl—Sofía Juame, wrapped in her pale pink blanket. She was rocking slowly, back and forth in that instinctive, natural rhythm you hadn’t even known Alexia had in her. Her head was bent low, her mouth close to the baby's ear.

And she was singing. A gentle, low lullaby in Catalan, the words soft and imperfect—half spoken, half hummed—but the melody was unmistakably familiar. You’d heard her hum it once before. The night you first talked about having a baby. You didn’t recognise it then, but when you’d asked, Alexia had told you with a quiet smile: “It’s what my dad used to sing to me when I couldn’t sleep.”

She hadn’t sung it since. Until now.

You watched in silence, overwhelmed. Eli, standing just behind you, brought a hand to her mouth and froze. The breath she took was shaky, sharp. You turned and wrapped your arms around her, gently guiding her into the hug she clearly needed but hadn’t wanted to ask for.

She folded into you, completely, her face pressed into your shoulder, her whole body trembling with the emotion of seeing her daughter sing to hers. “I can’t believe this moment exists,” she whispered.

You nodded, your own tears already brimming again. “She’s everything, Eli. She’s everything he would’ve loved.”

She nodded against you, unable to speak for a second, just holding you like a mother would hold a daughter, grateful and grieving all at once. Alba wiped at her face quickly behind you, then whispered, “You have to interrupt her eventually or I’m going to sob in the hallway forever.”

You gave a teary laugh, pulled back from Eli, and knocked gently on the doorframe. Alexia turned slowly, and the look on her face—that look—was almost too much to take. Her eyes were wet, but her expression was completely calm, a kind of stillness only love could bring.

“You’ve got visitors,” you said gently.

She smiled, her lips brushing Sofía’s temple before she stepped back from the window. “Come meet her.”

Eli stepped forward first, still holding your hand, as if she needed to hold onto something solid as she approached the newest member of her family. And when she reached them—her daughter and her granddaughter—she didn’t speak at first.

She just reached out, cupped Sofía’s tiny head, and kissed her softly, whispering something private in Catalan that made Alexia close her eyes, swallowing hard.

Alba finally stepped in too, slower than usual, her voice quiet and cracked. “Okay,” she said, brushing a tear from her cheek as she peered down at her niece. “I get it now. She really is perfect.”

And in that room, wrapped in light and music and history, your little girl rested—held by the arms that would never let her fall.

Alba hovered near the edge of the hospital bed, her hands clasped tightly behind her back like she was physically restraining herself from scooping Sofía up into her arms. Her eyes were glued to the baby, wide and shining, a permanent smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Then she blinked, as if realising something far too important had yet to be said.

“Wait,” she whispered, her gaze flicking between you and Alexia. “Did you name her yet? What’s her name? Don’t tell me I’ve just been staring at her like she’s a work of art and she’s still called ‘baby girl Putellas’ on the charts.”

You and Alexia shared a look—soft, quiet, full of everything you’d both been feeling since you whispered her name aloud for the first time the night before. Alexia gently rocked her daughter in her arms, her hand brushing over the tiny pink hat covering her soft tufts of hair.

You sat up straighter, eyes never leaving the small, sleepy face in Alexia’s arms. “She has a name,” you said quietly. “We wanted to be sure before we told anyone. We wanted to see her first. Feel who she was.”

Alba leaned in a little. “Well? Don’t leave me hanging, I’m emotionally unstable already.”

You took a breath, your voice trembling with emotion. “Her name is… Sofía.”

There was a beat of silence—then Alba’s brows lifted, a smile tugging at her lips. “Sofía,” she said, testing it out.

At your nod, Alba let out a soft laugh. “She actually looks like a Sofía.”

You laughed too, quietly—but it was Eli who hadn’t said anything.

“Her middle name is Juame” You spoke carefully, Alba snapped her head to you, “So I’d like you to officially meet Sofía Juame Putellas Segura”

She stepped forward slowly, her eyes locked on her granddaughter, and then flicked to you, her lip trembling. “Juame…” she whispered. The name barely made it out of her mouth. “You gave her his name.”

You nodded again, swallowing past the lump in your throat. “I hope that's ok. We wanted her to have something of him. Something strong. Timeless. Something that… carries him forward.”

Eli’s eyes welled instantly. She brought her hand to her chest, staggered slightly like the moment had taken the breath right from her lungs. “I can’t believe…” she murmured, shaking her head gently, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I suggested Sofía and you… you used Juame. You gave your precious little girl our names.”

You reached for her hand, squeezing it tightly. “She looks like him, Eli. And she’s going to grow up with stories about him, and you, and this family. She’s going to know exactly who she came from. It only felt right when she is that much like him that she has his name”

Alexia’s voice was soft, broken with emotion as she gazed down at Sofía. “We wanted her to carry his name, have his part in her. And we wanted her to carry yours too, in a way. You’re the reason I’m the woman I am. You’re the reason she has this family to be born into.”

Eli couldn’t speak anymore. She just stepped forward and pressed her lips to Sofía’s forehead, her tears falling gently onto the soft pink fabric of her hat. “Sofía Juame,” she whispered again. “He would’ve loved her so much.”

And you knew, in that still, sacred moment—that your daughter had already brought a piece of him back into the world. And that in naming her, you hadn’t just honoured the past. You’d woven it into the future.

Alexia looked down at her daughter for another long moment, then slowly turned toward her mother. “Mami,” she said softly, her voice as delicate as the moment itself. “Do you want to hold her?”

Eli looked up, startled, like she hadn’t dared to ask. Her lips parted, trembling, eyes red-rimmed and watery. She nodded once, unable to speak.

Alexia moved gently, as if she were handing over a piece of the universe itself. She shifted Sofía with careful hands, cradling her like something sacred, then stepped forward and placed her into Eli’s waiting arms.

The moment Sofía settled against her grandmother’s chest, Eli let out a sound that was half a breath, half a sob. “Oh…” she whispered, eyes fixed on the baby’s face. “Oh, mi amor.”

She brought one hand up to Sofía’s cheek, brushing a fingertip ever so lightly down the soft curve of her tiny jaw. Her thumb paused under the baby’s chin, trembling, and then she inhaled sharply.

“She looks like him,” she whispered, voice cracked. “My Juame. She looks just like him, I couldn’t see properly before but I can see him now.” Eli sat slowly, never once breaking her gaze from the baby in her arms. Tears rolled freely down her cheeks now, one after another, no shame, no restraint—just raw, overwhelmed emotion. “She has his eyes,” Eli murmured. “His mouth, too. And that crease between the brows, even while she sleeps—that’s him. I used to tease him about it.” She laughed quietly, brokenly. “He’d furrow his brow when he read, and now she’s doing it in her sleep…”

You felt it in your throat before you even saw it—Alba, standing silently at the foot of the bed, eyes shining and glassy, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “She does,” Alba whispered. “She really does.”

You reached out without thinking, pulling her gently down beside you on the edge of the bed. She didn’t fight it—she just crumpled into your side, burying her face against your shoulder, her quiet sobs muffled but deep. You held her tightly, one arm wrapped around her back, your cheek resting on top of her head as she cried.

“She’s a part of him,” you whispered, your voice shaky, your own tears slipping freely now. “He’s still here because of her. Because of all of you.”

Alexia knelt beside her mother’s chair, one hand resting on Eli’s knee, the other gently stroking Sofía’s back. Her eyes never left them—her mother and daughter, bound now in something eternal. Eli bent her head, pressing her lips to Sofía’s forehead and lingering there. “Mi pequeña,” she whispered, “you are more than we ever dared to hope for.” And the room—filled with three generations of love, grief, legacy, and new beginnings—went quiet, except for the steady breathing of one small girl, who had no idea yet the kind of love she had been born into. But she would. You’d make sure of it.

The hours passed in a kind of dreamlike haze—a slow stretch of time that didn’t quite feel real, as though the whole day had been wrapped in cotton and warmth and the scent of your newborn daughter’s skin.

Eli and Alba never left. Not once.  

Eli sat comfortably in the armchair by the window, Sofía in her arms or resting in the bassinet beside her, her gaze never straying far from her granddaughter’s peaceful face. She was the picture of quiet awe, whispering soft Catalan lullabies and sharing little stories about Alexia’s own baby days that made your heart swell.

Alba, meanwhile, had appointed herself “gatekeeper,” posted proudly at the door like some overexcited security detail—only she wasn’t turning anyone away. She was ushering them in.

One by one, players from Alexia’s team began to filter in, each with shy smiles, quiet laughter, and hands filled with snacks, balloons, or tiny baby gifts they ‘definitely didn’t plan’ but somehow all brought.

The first to arrive was Ingrid and Mapi, Ingrid walked gently into the room with a bouquet of wildflowers and a tiny crocheted elephant tucked into her elbow.

“Oh my God,” she whispered when she saw Sofía. “She’s so small. You made that?”

Alexia grinned, her hand wrapped around your waist. “Perfect isn’t she.”

Ingrid pressed a kiss to your cheek and then Alexia’s, before quietly crouching down beside the bassinet. “She already has your eyebrows,” she whispered. “Poor thing.”

That set off another round of gentle laughter. Mapi however showed up with a pair of pink baby sunglasses and a pacifier that looked suspiciously like a miniature Barça ball.

“She’s got to be on brand,” she said proudly. “And I’m calling dibs on being the godmother who teaches her to swear in at least three languages.”

“She’s not even a day old, Mapi,” you groaned, but your smile was wide and warm.

Later, Irene arrived with a box of pastries and a letter she’d written for Sofía to read when she turned 18, sealed and wrapped in ribbon. You stared at it, speechless.

“I wanted her to know what kind of world she was born into,” Irene said, a little sheepish. “And how lucky she is to have you two as her mamís.”

Alba, already teary again, dramatically shoved tissues at everyone without being asked.

The visits continued all day—sometimes one player, sometimes two. Some stayed only for five minutes, others sat with you a while, cooing over the baby, asking you how you felt, hugging Alexia tightly like they could see how cracked open and glowing she was.

And through it all, Eli stayed. Quietly watching her daughter move around the room, introducing her daughter to her teammates—her sisters. She watched Alexia beam with pride each time someone commented on Sofía’s name, or her full head of hair, or her perfect little pout.

She leaned toward you at one point, her voice low.

“I’ve never seen her look so... full,” she said softly, eyes wet. “She’s always been strong. But this—this love—it’s made her whole.”

You nodded, unable to speak, watching your wife across the room as she gently held Sofía in her arms while Mapi adjusted the baby sunglasses over the blanket.

“She’s never going to remember today,” Eli added, looking at Sofía now. “But I will. Every second.”

And you would too.

Every smile, every cry, every soft “hola, pequeña” spoken from one loving voice to another.  

Your daughter had been born into more than a family. She’d been born into a team. One that would never let her fall.

It was early evening by the time Carla finally burst through the door, as subtle as a marching band and exactly as dramatic as you needed her to be.

“Move,” she barked playfully at Alba, who was still guarding the doorway like a loyal hound with a mild caffeine problem. “I’ve got a medical emergency.”

You blinked up from your spot in the hospital bed, where you were nestled under the covers, your daughter sleeping peacefully in the bassinet beside you, your legs stretched out and aching in that oddly satisfying I-just-made-a-human way.

Carla marched in, sunglasses still perched on top of her head despite the fact that the sun had dipped hours ago, and she was holding—no, presenting—a large brown paper bag like it contained the cure to all earthly suffering.

“I come bearing the only thing that matters right now.”

The smell hit you before anything else—greasy, salty, divine.

You sat up a little straighter, your body instinctively reacting before your brain even processed.

“Is that—?”

Carla grinned, slipping the bag into your lap like she’d just handed over a sacred text. “Double cheeseburger. Large fries. And because I’m the best friend you’ll ever have: large chocolate milkshake. And extra sweet curry sauces. You’re welcome.”

Your mouth opened but no words came out—just a small, awed sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

You looked at her with teary, desperate gratitude. “Carla… I’ve never loved you more in my life.”

Alexia laughed quietly as she peaked at the baby in her bassinet when she made a little noise. “I was literally present for the birth of our child.”

“And yet,” you said, already unwrapping the burger with shaking hands, “Carla brought me cheese.”

Eli chuckled from the armchair, watching you bite into the burger like it was the first food you’d ever tasted. “She’s earned a few points, I’ll give her that.”

Carla dropped dramatically into the empty chair beside your bed, smug. “I’m not saying I’m your real soulmate, but I did time this delivery for maximum emotional impact.”

You chewed slowly, eyes closed, groaning in utter bliss, “You did,” you mumbled around a mouthful of cheeseburger. “You so did.”

Alexia rolled her eyes but smiled, settling beside you on the bed as you reached blindly for a fry like someone starved in a desert.

“She couldn’t eat anything the whole labour,” she explained to Carla, one hand on your thigh. “She was running on adrenaline and ice chips. I offered a banana. She nearly threw it at me.”

“I told you,” Carla said proudly. “When in doubt—grease and dairy.” She leaned forward slightly, peeking at the sleeping baby in the bassinet. “She’s perfect, by the way. Absolutely worth every second of starvation. But I’m not above bribing her into loving me most. I already have a baby-sized hoodie that says ‘Team Carla.’”

You laughed mid-chew, almost choking on your fry, and reached out to squeeze her wrist. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re radiant. And hormonal. So I’ll take my compliments now, please.”

You grinned, wiping your mouth with a napkin. “You’re the best. Seriously. I love you.”

Carla softened, brushing your knuckles. “I love you too. Always. Even when you’ve got milkshake on your chin and hormones in your throat.”

“Charming,” Alexia muttered.

“Truthful,” Carla shot back, winking.

And in that room—full of fries, soft laughter, a sleeping baby girl, and the warm scent of cheeseburgers—you realised that love really did come in many forms.

Some in lullabies.  

Some in family names.  

And some in a greasy paper bag handed over at exactly the right moment.

Your first blind date with Alexia, feels like a whole other world away now, but it was the most perfect shot you ever took.

Dreaming in Blaugrana

The first rule of being Cat Culer? Don’t break character.

No talking. No gestures that are “too human.” Be goofy, be silent, be the lovable cat that makes kids laugh and grown players roll their eyes—but in a fond way.

You were good at it. Almost too good.

What started as a fun, side gig to make some extra money during your internship had turned into something... more. Somehow, you’d given Cat Culer a personality—something between chaotic little sibling and emotional support animal. The fans loved it. The staff loved it.

And now, annoyingly, the players did too.

You weren’t just the mascot who danced during warm-ups and waved from the sidelines anymore. You were in it. Integrated. Like some strange, silent member of the squad who just happened to be covered in fur and couldn't speak.

Sometimes, the team would warm up around you. Vicky had started a ritual of kicking the ball at your feet to see how many times you could clumsily bounce it back before tripping over your tail. Aitana once tied a sweatband around your paw during a training session and told the staff you were “rehabbing an injury.” Even Patri tried to teach you the team handshake—painfully slowly, like she was working with a toddler.

But it was Mapi who first saw you as something more than a walking cat suit.

At first, she just teased you, like she did with everyone. She tossed her training bib over your head once and told you to “earn your spot.” She’d sneak behind you and tug your tail, then whistle innocently like she wasn’t the one who did it. Classic Mapi chaos.

But after a few weeks, the teasing turned into something more familiar. Something gentler.

She’d wave you over during breaks, gesture for you to sit beside her on the bench like it was normal. She started talking to you—not just playful jokes, but actual talking. About how training had gone. How she was tired of certain drills. How the new boots she got were “literally trying to kill her.”

You couldn’t respond, of course—not in words. But you’d nod, shrug, act things out when it felt right. You became her sounding board.

Some days, she brought an extra snack and just handed it to you without a word. A granola bar. A piece of fruit. Once, an entire slice of pizza smuggled in a napkin, handed off like contraband.

One quiet afternoon, she flopped down beside you on the grass after training, her curls still damp, and sighed. “You know,” she muttered, “you’re actually a decent listener.”

You mimed writing that down in a little notebook. She snorted.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

It started with a dare.

Something stupid—classic Mapi.

“Bet you can’t nutmeg me,” she challenged, already halfway into a pair of too-big goalie gloves she’d found in the locker room. The rest of the team had filtered out after training, and the sun had started dipping low, casting long gold shadows across the empty pitch.

You—still suited up as Cat Culer—pretended to crack your knuckles, gave her a dramatic nod, and stepped up to the ball.

Mapi widened her stance like she was guarding the Champions League final.

You tapped the ball forward, danced left, feinted right—and slipped it between her legs.

She let out an indignant squawk and spun around. “No. No way. That was illegal. There’s dark magic in that foam.”

You threw your paws up in celebration and did a full-body wiggle, which only made her groan louder.

“You are such a menace,” she said, laughing. “I swear, I don’t know how none of us have figured out who you are yet.”

You sit down on grass slowly, gave her a thumbs-up with one plush paw.

She walked over and plopped down beside you. “I’ve always wondered who’s behind that thing, you know. Like—do they hire a stunt double? Is it one of the interns?” Her eyes glinted, teasing.

You froze.

Mapi nudged your foam elbow with hers. “You gonna tell me or is this a lifelong secret kind of situation?”

There was a beat of silence. Then another.

And then—without letting yourself think about it too hard—you reached up, grabbed the mascot’s oversized head, and pulled it off in one slow, silent motion.

The air hit your face like a wave.

Mapi blinked. Her mouth parted in surprise, eyes scanning your features like she was making sure she was seeing right.

“No way,” she whispered. “You?”

You gave a sheepish smile. “Yeah. Surprise.”

For a second, she just stared. Then—suddenly—she burst out laughing.

“Holy shit,” she said, slapping her thigh. “You’ve been Cat Culer this whole time?!”

You nodded, heart pounding.

“You’re the intern! The one who helps with post edits and carries tripods like they’re sacred.”

“Guilty.”

Mapi grinned wide, shaking her head. “I can’t believe I’ve been emotionally bonding with the intern in a cat suit.”

You rubbed the back of your neck. “I didn’t mean for it to be a thing. It just kind of… became one.”

Her smile softened a bit. “Hey. Your secret’s safe with me, okay?”

You met her eyes—grateful, nervous, kind of dizzy. “Thanks.” You preferred it that way Because when the suit came off, you weren’t Cat Culer.

You were just… you.

The new girl.

Quiet. Polite. The one who held boom mics just out of frame, who adjusted camera angles in the rain, who edited clips at midnight so the club’s socials would be ready for the next day.

Technically, part of the media team—but more like the background noise of it. Your job was to capture the spotlight, not stand in it.

You’d shared maybe four conversations with Alexia outside the suit. And "conversations" was a generous word. They were more like transactions.

“Lighting’s too harsh.”

“Where do I stand?”

“Let me know when this is done.”

No eye contact. No small talk. Not even a nod.

She wasn’t mean. Just… clipped. Cold. Efficient. She said what she needed to say and moved on. You were just another staffer in black Barça gear with a badge around your neck and a checklist in your hand.

She didn’t know your name. Probably didn’t realize you had one.

You could’ve been swapped out for someone else the next day, and she wouldn’t notice.

And it hurt.

Even though it shouldn’t have.

You told yourself it was fine. She had other things to worry about—pressure, performance, expectations that never seemed to loosen. She didn’t owe you anything. She didn’t have time to smile at every intern fumbling with a tripod.

But still…

It was strange. Jarring, even.

Because when you were in the suit—when the fur was zipped up and your face was hidden and your voice silenced—that’s when she smiled. When she sought you out. When she saw you.

Not the person underneath. Not the girl with tired eyes and a half-eaten protein bar in her pocket. But the character. The mask.

Cat Culer was allowed into her world.

You weren’t.

And no matter how many times you told yourself it didn’t matter, that it wasn’t personal—

It still felt personal.

But in the suit?

She looked for you.

She laughed with you.

Like she didn’t even realize that just an hour earlier, she'd walked right past you—barely sparing a glance, barely recognizing you as a person, let alone the one she’d end up sitting beside in silence, sharing a moment that felt achingly close to something real.

Something you wanted to be real.

It was confusing. Unfair, even.

Because outside of the suit, you were no one.

Just the girl behind the lens. The one holding the mic.

The one taking up space but not attention.

You were used to being behind the scenes, but this? This was different.

She didn’t just ignore you. She didn’t see you.

Not until you stopped being you.

And yet you kept coming back.

Today was one of those rare, quiet afternoons—the kind where time slowed down just enough for your thoughts to catch up to you. No matches. No press. Just the sun low in the sky, spilling gold across the grass like it was painting over everything you couldn’t say out loud.

The stadium was mostly empty. A few distant voices. The echo of water running in the showers. The sharp, clean scent of freshly cut pitch.

You could’ve gone home. Everyone else had.

You should’ve.

Instead, you suited up.

You weren’t even sure when it had stopped being part of your job. When slipping into the oversized fur and foam had become something you needed. Maybe it was gradual. A slow shift you didn’t notice at first—how Cat Culer started feeling safer than your own skin.

When you wore the suit, no one judged.

No one asked questions.

You didn’t have to perform you, you just… performed.

And they loved you for it.

The players—especially Mapi—treated you like family. Even the staff smiled more. Fans waved, kids screamed your name. But most of all… she saw you.

Alexia.

In the suit, you were someone worth walking toward.

Someone worth talking to.

She would joke. Nudge you with her elbow. Give you that quiet little smile she rarely wore around anyone but teammates. A smile that felt rare, almost private. Like a gift.

And yeah, maybe you shouldn’t have let yourself read into it.

But how could you not?

When it felt like the only time she actually saw you was when you were hidden behind fur and mesh eyeholes?

The irony stung. That she connected with the version of you that wasn’t real—wasn’t even allowed to speak. That this—this character you created to survive the sidelines—was somehow more lovable than the real thing.

And still, you pulled the head over your face.

Still, you zipped it up.

Because the truth was…

It hurt less to be seen as a cartoon than to not be seen at all.

The suit was hot. Suffocating, even.

The kind of heat that stuck to your skin, that crawled down your spine and made every breath feel a little heavier. But you didn’t take it off.

You couldn’t.

Not yet.

You stayed near the edge of the pitch, wandering the sideline with your usual exaggerated movements—half warm-up, half act. Knees high, arms flopping in all the wrong ways, tail swaying with each bounce. The sort of routine that had become muscle memory now. Familiar. Safe.

It was stupid, probably. No one was watching. No cameras. No kids. No coaches.

Just the empty stadium stretching around you, golden light pouring in from the last slant of the sun, and a silence so thick it felt like it could swallow you whole.

And then—

“You know you’re not on the clock, right?”

You turned so fast your oversized feet nearly tripped over themselves.

Alexia stood by the railing, one arm resting casually against the metal, the other folded across her chest. She was still in her Barça training gear, hair damp from a quick shower, the tips of it curling slightly as they clung to the sides of her face. Her expression was unreadable—half teasing, half tired. But she was smiling.

At you.

At Cat Culer.

Not the girl inside.

You gave a familiar shrug—shoulders high, paws out, head tilted dramatically to the side like a guilty cartoon.

She let out a quiet laugh. Just one breath. Soft, but real.

“You just like the attention, don’t you?” she said, stepping down from the railing and walking toward the bench behind you. “Can’t go one day without being a menace.”

You placed a paw to your chest in mock offense, shaking your head like how dare you?

Another breath of laughter, and she sank down onto the bench with a heavy sigh, legs spread, elbows resting on her knees. The kind of posture that said I’m done for the day. That she didn’t have to be Captain Putellas right now. Not here. Not with you.

It wasn’t the first time she’d sat near you like this.

But it never failed to catch you off guard.

Slowly, cautiously, you lowered yourself beside her. The fur brushed her sleeve for just a second. Your heart skipped.

Alexia was quiet. Just breathing. Letting the air fill in the spaces between the words she wasn’t ready to say. Then finally, voice low: “I think my legs are turning against me.”

You made a small stretching motion, cartoonishly showing off your ‘injured’ legs in solidarity. She smiled without looking at you.

“I’ve done, like, eight interviews this week,” she muttered. “They ask the same stuff every time. Like they want me to say something groundbreaking, but only if it sounds good in a headline.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to.

That was the thing about the suit. You couldn’t speak. So you listened. You heard people in ways you never could outside of it.

She sighed again, voice softer now. “I think I’m just tired of being who everyone expects me to be.”

That line hit you straight in the chest. Deeper than anything else she’d said.

Because you knew that feeling.

More than you wanted to admit.

“I’m the captain. The face of the team. I can’t mess up. Can’t be off. Can’t even be quiet for too long without someone thinking something’s wrong.”

She turned her head slightly, eyes on the pitch, but her voice was directed toward you. “But you… You don’t care about any of that, do you?”

You slowly shook your head.

Not in judgment. Not in pity. Just… listening.

“It’s nice,” she murmured. “Being around someone who doesn’t expect anything.”

She paused.

Then: “I talk to you more than I talk to half the staff.”

You went still.

There it was. The part that always hurt.

You were part of the staff. She’d walked right past you hours ago, when you were setting up lights for post-training interviews. She’d looked through you like you didn’t exist. Like your presence didn’t matter.

But now? In this suit? You were someone she opened up to. Someone she could breathe around.

And you couldn’t say a single word back.

You lifted your paw and gently bumped it against her shoulder. Just once. A plush, silly gesture. A peace offering. A silent I’m here.

She looked over, and for the briefest moment, her face softened. Not the public smile she wore for cameras. Not the polite mask she used in interviews.

Something smaller. Warmer.

“You’re not so bad, gato.”

You wanted to tell her it was you.

That you weren’t just this suit. That you were listening.

That you saw her, even when she didn’t see you.

But the words stayed trapped inside the costume.

And your silence made it easier for her to keep pretending.

She stood with a quiet grunt, brushing imaginary dust from her sweats.

“See you around,” she said. Then paused.

Added, more gently:

“Don’t work too hard.”

And then she walked off. Just like that.

Leaving you on the bench, still in the suit, paws resting in your lap, body aching from the weight of everything you couldn’t say.

The stadium was quiet again. Empty. Still.

She didn’t know you.

Not really.

But for a moment—for that moment—she saw something in you.

Even if it wasn’t the version you wished it had been.

It was getting harder. Harder to keep track of which version of yourself people were talking to. Harder to separate the suit from the skin underneath. Harder to pretend it didn’t sting when Alexia smiled at Cat Culer like an old friend… and barely nodded at you the next morning in the media room.

You were crouched low behind the training cam—hoodie up, fingers adjusting the focus, keeping quiet like always. You liked the quiet. You had to. It was easy to disappear when no one was looking for you.

Alexia passed behind you. You felt her presence before she even spoke.

“Camera’s in the way,” she said.

Not cold. Not cruel. Just… indifferent.

Like she was speaking to a wall. Or a chair. Or another piece of equipment she didn’t know by name.

You muttered, “Sorry,” and scooted out of the way.

She didn’t pause. Didn’t glance down. Didn’t realize you were the same person she’d sat with on the bench yesterday, shoulder to foam shoulder, sharing pieces of herself like secrets whispered into the night.

You watched her walk off, and something hollow settled in your chest.

It wasn’t her fault. Not really. You weren’t someone she was supposed to notice.

You weren’t a teammate. Or a coach. Or anyone with enough authority to be worth remembering.

You were just… staff.

One of dozens of faces tucked into the background of her world. The quiet girl behind the lens. The one who clipped post-match quotes and adjusted microphones and sent edited reels for approval before most people had even finished their breakfast.

You were the one who waited in tunnels for interviews to wrap, who carried backup batteries in your pockets and held Cat Culer’s oversized head in your lap during travel so it wouldn’t get crushed under gear bags.

You did your job. You blended in.

You shifted back behind the camera, hit record, and told yourself it didn’t matter.

But it did.

Because you remembered every moment. Every soft glance. Every laugh.

Even if she didn’t know they’d ever been yours.

And every day, it got harder to pretend that being half-seen was enough.

But later that afternoon, suited up and pacing the tunnel outside the pitch, tail swaying in loose, idle arcs behind you, you felt her before you saw her.

It was always like that with Alexia.

A shift in the air. A weight in the silence. Like her presence had its own gravity, and you couldn’t help but be pulled toward it.

“Guess who’s early today?” came her voice from the tunnel entrance—low, teasing, touched with something lighter than you ever heard when she talked to media or press.

You turned, paws to your chest like who, me?

Alexia grinned, and you felt it hit you square in the ribs.

“I knew it,” she said, stepping closer, arms crossed over her chest in that relaxed, effortless way that made her look like she belonged to the moment. Not the captain. Not the face of a franchise. Just... a woman with tired eyes and a crooked smile.

Her tone with you was different here. Softer. Unpolished.

Not the rehearsed charisma she pulled out for interviews. Not the carefully edited warmth of someone used to being seen from behind a lens.

Just real.

She leaned her shoulder into the wall beside you like it was habit now—like finding you here was part of her routine. Like you were her routine.

“You’ve got good timing,” she said, tilting her head slightly toward the field. “Mapi and Patri are already out there arguing over who gets to play with you first. Pretty sure Patri has a full game plan. Tactics and everything.”

You let out an exaggerated shiver, paws flailing in mock fear, and Alexia laughed—really laughed.

And something in your chest cracked open just a little more.

“I swear,” she said through a breath, shaking her head, “you’ve got everyone wrapped around your paw.”

She paused.

Then added, offhand—but too easily:

“Even me.”

Your whole body went still.

Even me.

You knew it was just a phrase. A playful throwaway. Something she didn’t even think about.

But you felt it anyway. Like it had weight. Like it had meaning.

And worse—you wanted it to.

You lifted your plush thumb in a slow, shy thumbs-up, and she rolled her eyes in that familiar, fond way. But there was something behind it. A softness that didn’t exist anywhere else. Not with the press. Not with the fans.

Just here. Just with you.

She nudged your foam shoulder with hers—gentle, warm. Nothing anyone else would notice. But to you? It was enough to make your knees weak inside the suit.

And you hated how much you wanted to lean into it.

How much you wished you could stay in this stupid costume just to stay in her orbit a little longer.

Eventually, the rest of the players filtered onto the field in waves—half-laced boots, tangled ponytails, loose energy from a long day and not enough sleep. The air buzzed with lazy chaos.

You stepped out with them, tail bouncing, paws waving, and instantly Mapi was on you—trying to toss a training bib over your head, shouting “Get over here, ratón!” while you ducked and scrambled and flailed dramatically in slow-motion.

The girls were in stitches. Patri egged her on. Ingrid filmed the whole thing. Someone tossed you a cone like a weapon and you wielded it like a sword.

But through it all—every dance, every ridiculous skit, every exaggerated pratfall—you felt her watching.

Alexia.

Not hovering. Not orchestrating.

Just… present. Just there.

You heard her laugh when you tackled Mapi and held her down in victory. Heard her whistle when you attempted the latest TikTok dance and butchered it in the best way.

You didn’t have to look to know her eyes were on you. You could feel it.

And then the cameras arrived.

Lights. Lenses. Boom mics and branded windbreakers. They swarmed like a reminder that this was still a job, still a performance.

But when Alexia leaned in—quietly, casually, just loud enough for the crew to hear—it didn’t feel like performance at all.

“You’re the real star of this team, huh?” she whispered near your foam ear, voice low and laced with a grin.

You froze for half a second.

Then nodded.

What else could you do?

You were sweating inside the suit. Your heart was a thunderstorm.

But on the outside, you were calm. Cute. Carefree.

You were the mascot she liked.

Not the girl she didn’t see.

Later that night, long after the stadium had emptied and the echo of cleats had faded into memory, you sat curled up in the dim glow of the media office. The only sound was the quiet whir of the desktop fan and the occasional click of your mouse as you scrubbed through hours of footage.

Your hair was still damp from the world’s fastest shower, the scent of hotel soap clinging faintly to your oversized hoodie. Your knees were pulled tight to your chest in the rolling chair, ankles crossed, fingers moving on muscle memory. The kind of work you could do half-asleep.

But you weren’t asleep. Not even close.

You were too focused on the screen—on every frame where Cat Culer bounced through training, taunting teammates and soaking in the chaos. You zoomed in. Watched it again. Slowed it down.

Alexia, in the background.

Her eyes.

Tracking the mascot.

Not once. Not twice. Over and over.

Lingering in shots she didn’t need to be in. Smiling at moments no one else caught. Laughing, just slightly, even when the camera wasn’t on her.

You paused the clip.

Frame by frame, you scrolled to the moment her gaze landed right where yours would’ve been—if she’d only known who she was really looking at.

It wasn’t in your head.

It wasn’t.

She saw you.

Just not… you.

A quiet knock against the doorframe jolted you from your spiral.

“Yo,” came a familiar voice.

You blinked, turned, and found Mapi lounging casually in the doorway. She looked like she’d just finished a shower herself—hair damp, socks mismatched, water bottle tucked under one arm and a bag of off-brand chips in the other.

She gave you a once-over, like she was evaluating your life choices. “You’re always here. Don’t you ever sleep?”

You tugged your hoodie down over your knees, suddenly aware of how small you looked in the chair. “Deadlines,” you mumbled.

Mapi made a noncommittal sound and strolled in, dropping into the seat beside you without asking. She peered at the monitor. “You were on fire today. The kids are gonna eat this up when it goes live.”

You blinked. “You mean… Cat Culer?”

She raised an eyebrow, giving you a sideways glance like don’t play dumb.

“Obviously.”

You let out a soft laugh, but it didn’t sit right in your throat. There was something about the way she was looking at you now—curious, amused, but… sharper than before.

You felt your smile slip. “What?”

Mapi tilted her head, eyes narrowed slightly. “Nothing,” she said slowly. “Just... you and the gato. Same height. Same build. Same—how do I put this nicely—chaotic little limbs? I am suprised I didn’t realized it before or others… you are really good at hiding ”

Your heart tripped over itself.

She tapped a chip to her bottom lip thoughtfully. “You’re not, like... secretly training for Cirque du Soleil, are you?”

You shook your head too fast. “No. I mean—I just—”

Careful.

Mapi snorted. “Relax, I’m joking. Kind of.”

Your eyes darted back to the screen, needing somewhere to hide. Alexia’s face was frozen mid-laugh, body tilted toward the mascot, eyes soft in a way that made your throat go dry.

Mapi followed your gaze. Her voice dropped, just a little. “You know… she likes her.”

Your hands stilled on the keyboard. “Who?”

She gave you a look. “The gato.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. “She likes the mascot?” you said, hoping that maybe answer of that question would make it sting less.

“Yeah,” Mapi said with a shrug. “More than she likes most people.”

She said it so easily. Like it was no big deal.

But it was.

Because it meant Alexia had made room in her heart for something that wasn’t you.

It meant the warmth wasn’t meant for your name, or your face, or the real version of yourself sitting here, half-curled in an office chair with tired eyes and raw nerves.

She liked the suit.

She liked the part of you you could never keep forever.

You stared at the screen again, at the still image of her laughter, frozen in time. So close. So far away.

“That's something,” Mapi had said.

It was.

And it wasn’t.

Because you knew how this story usually went.

You were the invisible girl. The one behind the mask.

The one who stayed after the lights went out, cleaning up the pieces of other people’s moments.

It was an off-day for media staff—no filming assignments, no urgent emails, no TikTok drafts or caption rewrites waiting in the queue. The team had a closed training session, no press allowed, just players and coaches and the hum of routine.

By all accounts, you should’ve stayed in bed. Slept in. Breathed.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you were there before most of the players, slinking in through the side entrance with your staff pass tucked inside your hoodie, like even that was too bold. You walked slowly, deliberately, as if convincing yourself that every step was justified. As if the weight of the camera slung across your shoulder was reason enough.

Maybe it was habit.

Maybe it was something lonelier than that.

Because staying home meant silence. Meant stillness. Meant your mind running laps around itself with nowhere to go—loops of what-ifs and what-are-you-even-doing and she-laughed-at-you-yesterday-but-was-it-real?

So you came here instead.

You didn’t suit up. The costume was still in the staff locker room, tucked into its usual oversized duffel bag like some sleeping beast. Today, you couldn’t bring yourself to put it on. Not yet. Not until you figured out why you needed it so badly.

Instead, you lingered at the edge of the pitch, hugging your hoodie tighter around yourself as you fiddled with the camera. Checking battery levels that didn’t need checking. Adjusting light exposure even though the sun hadn’t moved. You acted like you were preparing to shoot something, like you were gathering B-roll for a nonexistent project.

Truth was, you didn’t know what you were doing.

You just… couldn’t not be there.

The players began arriving in pairs and small clusters, loose and sleepy from the early hour, their voices carrying in bursts of Spanish and Catalan. Some waved. Some nodded. Most didn’t notice you at all. You blended in like always—part of the furniture. A blur behind the lens.

Then she walked in.

Alexia.

Even from across the field, she changed the air. It was subtle, but undeniable. Her stride was confident, loose hoodie tied around her waist, hair scraped back in that way that made her look effortlessly in control. People shifted as she passed. Some greeted her. Some didn’t dare. But all of them noticed.

You watched from your corner, not daring to lift your camera, not even pretending now.

You told yourself it was curiosity. Professional habit. A media reflex.

But really, it was gravity.

She had it. That quiet pull. That way of moving like she belonged to the space and the space belonged to her.

You told yourself not to stare. Not to expect anything.

Still, you searched her face from afar—looking for a trace of recognition, some hint of softness she only ever gave the mascot.

But her expression was unreadable. Focused. Her eyes scanned the field, the layout, the drills—not you.

She never looked in your direction. Not once.

And that should’ve been okay.

You weren’t her teammate. You weren’t her friend. You weren’t anyone.

But the silence where her smile used to be?

It echoed.

You adjusted the lens on your camera—though it didn’t need adjusting—just to give your hands something to do. Just to remind yourself you were real. Even if she didn’t see it.

Especially because she didn’t see it.

And maybe it would’ve been easier if she had never laughed with you.

Never leaned into your shoulder.

Never whispered, “Even me.”

But she had.

And now every glance that didn’t come your way hurt more than it should.

Because she saw the suit.

Not you.

Not yet.

Maybe then it wouldn’t have mattered that she didn’t look at you today.

But she had. And it did.

You busied yourself filming Mapi and Ingrid warming up—banter, light jabs, the usual chaos. It was easier to focus through the lens. The viewfinder gave you distance, let you pretend. Through it, everything had edges. Framing. Control.

You could hide behind autofocus and ISO settings and pretend the gnawing in your chest wasn’t real.

Mapi was spinning a ball on her finger while Ingrid shouted something half-sarcastic in Norwegian when you caught movement from the corner of your eye.

Mapi jogged over.

You dropped the camera slightly, instinctively straightening up like you’d been caught doing something wrong.

She squinted at you under the morning sun, sweat dampening the edge of her hairline. Her tone was quieter than usual. Gentler. “You good?”

You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just… needed some extra footage. B-roll. Might use it for the mini-doc.”

Mapi didn’t buy it.

Didn’t even pretend to. She crossed her arms, hip cocked slightly. “You’re filming warmups on a closed training day. You didn’t even tell Carla you were coming in.”

You shrugged, trying to play it off. “Just wanted to be useful.”

Mapi gave you a long look. The kind that peeled back your layers even when you weren’t ready. She tilted her head slightly, lowering her voice. “You know you don’t have to put on the suit every time you want to be seen.”

That hit harder than you expected.

You let out a half-laugh—dry, automatic. “I’m not trying to be seen.”

She raised a brow, unimpressed. “Then why do you look like someone kicked your dog?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

You blinked too fast and looked back down at your camera, adjusting your grip like that was the problem. Like if you just focused hard enough, everything else might fade.

Mapi didn’t press. But she stayed close, silent for a beat longer than usual. Then, without warning, she gently bumped her elbow into yours.

“For what it’s worth…” she murmured, “I think she’s starting to notice.”

Your head snapped toward her. “What?”

Mapi didn’t look at you. She tilted her chin toward the field instead, voice low, unreadable. “Look.”

Your eyes followed the motion.

There, just past the midfield line, stood Alexia. Hands on her hips. Posture loose but alert. Her gaze drifted across the field—casual, scanning—but when it passed over you… it paused.

She looked once.

Then again.

Slower this time.

Like she was trying to place something. Like she didn’t quite understand why she was looking at you at all—but couldn’t help it.

Your pulse stuttered.

Mapi didn’t say anything, but you felt her watching you carefully. Not with judgment—just that quiet, unnerving perceptiveness she slipped into when she thought people were hurting.

“She doesn’t know it’s you,” Mapi said finally, voice low. “But something in her does. You’re not as invisible as you think.”

You swallowed hard.

Didn’t answer.

Because if you did, you weren’t sure what would come out.

Later that afternoon, you suited up.

You told yourself it was for content. Just a few silly videos to keep engagement up. Something harmless for the socials—Cat Culer doing crossbars or mimicking warmups or being chased by Mapi again.

But deep down, you knew.

You did it because you missed the way Alexia looked at you when she thought you were someone else.

Because the ache of being ignored that morning hadn’t gone away. And this? This was the only version of yourself she saw.

The moment your paws hit the edge of the pitch, the atmosphere shifted.

Patri lit up and waved like you were a long-lost sibling. Ingrid shouted something loud and impossible to decipher, but her grin said enough. Mapi didn’t even hide her smirk—just threw you a lazy salute and mouthed, “Showtime.”

And then there was Alexia.

She turned as if pulled by instinct. As if she’d felt you before she even saw you.

And she smiled.

It wasn’t wide or showy—barely even noticeable if you weren’t looking. But you were always looking.

It was a smile that reached the corners of her eyes. That softened her whole face. That made your stomach twist.

She walked over like she always did now, no hesitation, no curiosity. Like you were already part of her routine.

“You’re late,” she said, arms crossed, eyes bright with quiet amusement. “We had a whole debate earlier. Mapi swears you dance better than half the team. I told her she’s dramatic. Don’t make me look bad.”

You covered your face with your paws and gave a sheepish head shake—me? never.

Alexia snorted. “Coward.”

So you gave her a tiny shimmy. Just enough to get a laugh. Foam hips swaying in exaggerated rhythm.

It worked.

Her laugh was instant—unfiltered and real—and it tore something open inside you.

Because it wasn’t a laugh she gave to the cameras. Or to reporters. It was the kind she gave when she forgot to guard herself. The kind you’d never heard outside the suit.

You couldn’t help it. You leaned into her, just slightly.

She bumped her shoulder against your padded one without missing a beat. The same way she always did. It felt like a secret ritual now. A quiet way of saying you’re here.

Then—quietly—“You’ve been weird lately.”

You stilled.

Her tone wasn’t suspicious, exactly. Just… observant.

“Not bad weird,” she added quickly, glancing toward the field. “Just different. Like you’re… distracted.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just held your stupid foam paws in front of you and tried not to panic.

“Don’t know what it is,” she said, quieter now, almost to herself. “Just feels like something’s shifted.”

Your breath caught.

She was noticing. Maybe not enough to connect the dots. But enough to feel it. Enough to sense that something wasn’t adding up.

You raised one paw and tapped your chest, then pointed at her—You know me, the motion said, you already do.

Alexia looked at you, really looked. Her eyes lingered like they were searching for a crack in the surface. A tell. Something to anchor what she was feeling.

She gave you a crooked smile. The kind that felt too intimate. Too knowing.

“Yeah. Maybe I do.”

Your heart stuttered.

Because maybe she did.

And maybe she didn’t.

But whatever this was—it was slipping past the boundaries you’d built. She was reaching into something you weren’t sure you could keep hidden much longer.

And the longer you wore the mask, the more it started to feel like it was the real you.

Or worse—like it was the only version she wanted.

That night, long after the sun had dipped below the horizon and most of the players had filtered out with echoes of laughter and slamming lockers, you stayed behind.

You told yourself it was to finish uploading footage, to organize the next day’s social queue, to label files and adjust sound levels.

But really—you were hiding.

Your back ached from hours of crouching. Your hands still trembled, your whole body buzzing from the heat and adrenaline that clung even after the mascot head came off.

It sat on the desk now—Cat Culer. Big foam smile. Empty eyes. Watching you.

Mocking you.

You stared back at it like it had betrayed you.

Because in a way, it had.

She’d fallen for someone who wasn’t real. Not entirely. Not fully. And the terrifying part wasn’t that she might find out.

It was that maybe she never would.

The door creaked open.

You froze.

Footsteps. Light. Familiar.

Then a voice—casual, distracted. “Sorry—forgot my charger.”

Your stomach dropped.

You turned just as Alexia stepped into the room.

She paused instantly.

Eyes on the suit first—still clinging to your body, tail and torso intact—then slowly lifting to the mascot head on the table. And finally… your face.

Your real face.

Exposed.

Still flushed. Still damp from the heat.

The room shifted. The silence tightened.

Her brows pulled together, confusion flickering behind her eyes. She opened her mouth like she might say something—then stopped.

Her expression flattened. Neutral. Guarded.

“I, uh…” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the locker behind you, though she didn’t move to grab anything. “I didn’t know you were…”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

Didn’t have to.

The air between you was full of everything she didn’t say.

You wanted to speak. To explain. To apologize. To do something rather than nothing. But nothing made it past your lips.

She lingered there for one breath. Then another.

And finally, her voice low and distant, she said, “I gotta go.”

She turned before you could answer. Before you could stop her.

The door clicked shut behind her.

And just like that, the silence returned.

The only sound left was your own breath, shallow and uneven, echoing back at you through the empty grin of the mascot head beside you.

if this doesn't end with a contract renewal.. i might just delete the app 👀

🏀 Based after Eleven 🏀

Chapter 4

It started as playful online chemistry with someone unexpected-Alexia Putellas. Flirty banter turned into late-night texts before a heated moment on a club balcony shifted everything.

Now it was post game meet-ups, no-strings friends-with-benefits arrangement. They shared passion, comfort, and the grind of pro sports. But as the season went on, lines blurred.

It was supported to stay simple. These things never do however. Not in professional sports. The option to stay isn't always yours.

The city was still asleep when you left her. The sky was a deep blue fading into grey, the hush before sunrise casting a strange calm over the streets as you slipped into your car, heart heavy and full at once. Alexia had fallen asleep again for just a few minutes, curled beneath the blanket on her couch, hair still damp from your shared heat, one hand stretched toward where you’d been lying only moments before.

You’d kissed her forehead before leaving. Quietly. Reverently. No words. She didn’t need them. Now, hours later, you stood on the runway beside your teammates, the private jet humming behind you, the buzz of the semifinal beginning to settle into your chest like caffeine. Focus had returned—sharper than ever. But underneath it, beneath the press calls and the tactical briefings—there was her.

Still on your skin. Still under your nails. Still in your head. You looked down at your wrist. The bracelet. Barça colours. Two white beads. Two ones. Eleven. Your thumb brushed over it as you boarded the plane.

Across the aisle, Maya leaned in. “You’re weirdly calm.”

You shrugged, lips twitching. “I’m not calm. I’m just ready.”

Liv, already half-asleep beside her, muttered, “You say that like you didn’t sneak off to see your lucky charm last night.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” Maya said with a smirk. “It’s a flex.”

You settled into your seat, the engines roaring to life beneath you. You didn’t respond—not out loud. But you did glance out the window, the early light catching on your bracelet as the plane lifted off the ground. You were leaving for war. But you were carrying her with you.

Back in Barcelona, Alexia stirred awake to sunlight and an empty space beside her. She reached out, fingers brushing the couch cushion where you’d been, and smiled to herself. On the coffee table sat your jersey. And on top it, folded once, a note in your handwriting.

Don’t watch the scoreboard. Watch me.

She read it twice. Then she leaned back with a sigh, heart pounding, already counting down the hours until your next return. Semifinals were next. And this time, you weren’t just playing for the win. You were playing for the chance to win it all.

The wheels hit the tarmac in Milan with a soft thud, and your world shifted into overdrive. From the moment you stepped off the plane, it was a blur.

Camera crews. Sponsors. Staff. Schedules. Microphones shoved in your face before you even reached the hotel. You had barely adjusted to the Milan air before you were whisked into your first media session. Hair still damp from the plane bathroom sink, laces again barely tied, and someone was already asking:

“Do you feel pressure to lead this team to another historic win?” “Are you distracted by recent online noise?” “Any comment on Alexia Putellas’ tweet last week?”

You kept your answers clipped, professional, nodding politely, eyes forward. You’d trained for this—on and off the court. Smile when necessary. Speak when needed. Focus where it counts. The minute the press conference ended, it was straight to the training courts.

No time for breath. No space for nerves. Milan was cold, the sky grey and brooding, and the wind whipped up outside during your open session. Cameras lined the sidelines. Reporters watched every movement, every shot you took, every time the coach shouted your name.

You dug in harder. Every sprint, every drill, every set. You weren’t going to give them a headline about fatigue or distraction. You were here to prove something—to them, to yourself, maybe even to her. Still, the whirlwind didn’t stop. Dinner was late. Meetings even later.

By the time you made it back to your hotel room, it was after 9pm. You dropped your duffel by the bed and collapsed on the mattress, fully clothed, mind still buzzing with plays, matchups, film clips you couldn’t un-see. You stared at the ceiling, chest rising and falling, adrenaline still thrumming beneath your skin. Then you looked down.

The bracelet on your wrist caught the faint hotel light. Red. Blue. Two white beads. Two ones. You reached for your phone without even thinking, heart pulled toward her like gravity.

One unread message waited from hours ago.

Alexia: Play your game. The rest will follow.

You smiled to yourself, thumb brushing the screen before you typed back.

You: I will. Hope you liked your present

You didn’t wait for a reply. You slid the phone under your pillow, closed your eyes, and let the storm of the day settle. In two days, the lights would come on. In two days, the world would watch. But tonight—just for a few hours—you let yourself breathe.

—

You were in mid-morning practice in Milan when your phone started blowing up. At first, you ignored it. The group chat with Liv and Maya was always chaotic—memes, chaos, half-baked tactical jokes. But when Maya let out a loud gasp across the court, you knew something was up. “What?” you called out, dribbling casually toward her.

She turned her phone to face you, eyes wide, grinning like she’d just seen a celebrity scandal. “You’ve seen this, right?”

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes at the photo on her screen—and your brain short-circuited for a second. It was a picture of Alexia. Walking into the stadium for her own pre-match duties that day. Sunglasses on. Fresh blowout. And wearing a Barça basketball jersey. The one with your last name on the back and the big #11 stitched in bold white. The one you intended for her to wear in the privacy of her own home,

The caption beneath the post said

Alexia Putellas arrives for her game repping [Your Name]’s jersey. Is this a soft launch part two or what?!

And the replies. Forget it. The internet was melting down.

“THE JERSEY??? THE. JERSEY?????” “So we’ve passed matching bracelets and now we’re just wearing each other’s kit. Casual.” “Alexia Putellas wearing her girlfriend’s number like a proud WAG, I’m fine.” “Is this... is this canon??” “Plot twist: she’s just supporting Barça basketball. Right?? RIGHT???”

Your heart thudded in your chest—not from nerves this time, but from something warmer. Something that made you want to jump on a plane back to Barcelona and kiss her in front of every camera lens in the world.

Maya was still grinning. “That’s your jersey, isn’t it?”

“She’s just supporting the team,” you said quickly, trying to play it cool—even though your ears were hot and your smile was threatening to break your face.

Liv jogged over, phone in hand. “Oh, the locker room’s gonna scream. Her teammates probably are too.”

You sighed, but you were smiling. Hard. “She really wore it?” you asked quietly, mostly to yourself.

Maya nodded. “To her game. Into her stadium. Repping you. That’s not just support, that’s a statement.”

You looked down at your wrist. The bracelet was still there—anchoring you. Then you looked back at the court. “Alright,” you muttered, smirking now, refocusing. “Guess I’ve got a game to win. Can’t let my number one fan down.”

Liv rolled her eyes. “You two are disgusting.”

“Championship-level disgusting,” Maya added with a laugh. You just grinned and stepped back onto the court, locked in—because this time, your name wasn’t just on your back. It was walking into stadiums across the world on hers, too.

Back in Barcelona, the cameras were rolling as the team made their way onto the pitch for warmups. The sun was dipping low, casting a golden hue across the stadium, and the crowd was already buzzing—half for the game, half for the players they adored. But tonight, all eyes locked on Alexia. She jogged out onto the field, leading the squad in her crisp pre-match warmup kit, hair pulled back, face calm. Classic captain energy. But the cameras—sharp-eyed as ever—zoomed in fast. It wasn’t her boots this time. Not her armband. Not even the glimpse of the jersey she’d arrived in earlier. It was the bracelet on her wrist. Red and blue beads. Two white ones. Each with the number 1. 

Instant chaos.

“SHE HAS THE MATCHING BRACELET OH MY GOD???” “Two 1s. It’s the number 11 again. This is insane.” “They are doing this on purpose now and I refuse to believe otherwise.” “So it’s not just emotional support, it’s FULL matching accessory energy.”

Screenshots hit every social feed within minutes. A slow-motion clip of Alexia stretching on the sideline, bracelet catching the light as she adjusted her socks, was already being edited into fan videos with romantic music. And her teammates noticed.

Patri gave her a look mid-stretch—eyebrows up, smirk fully loaded. “Nice bracelet, Capitana.”

Alexia didn’t even blink. “Team colours.”

“Right,” Patri said, drawing the word out like it had layers of meaning. “And the white beads?”

Alexia tied her boot tighter, expression cool. “Lucky numbers.”

A few of them laughed, others nodded knowingly, and within seconds, the bracelet had taken on a life of its own. Alexia jogged past the media row, focused and unfazed, but the photographers didn’t miss it. The bracelet was captured in perfect clarity as she clapped toward the crowd, her wrist flicking just enough to catch the sunlight again.

You saw it during a team video review session. Maya was scrolling through social and nearly choked on her water when the clip popped up. “She’s wearing your bracelet,” she whispered, passing you her phone like it was contraband.

You stared at the screen for a second, caught in the slow-mo loop of Alexia walking across the pitch—bracelet fully on display, no hesitation.  She told you she didn’t have a matching one. You didn’t say anything at first. Just looked down at your own wrist… and smiled. Matching. Loud in the quietest way. Two cities. Two games. One silent, sparkling connection wrapped around your wrists. The world could speculate. You both already knew what it meant.

The video review session wrapped a little earlier than expected, which was rare. You were collecting your things when Coach called out across the locker room. "Sit tight for a minute—don’t head out just yet."

You froze mid-zip of your hoodie, glancing toward the screen you’d just been analysing game tape on. She gave a small smile and nodded to the staff member by the laptop.

“We figured, since most of you have been sneaking updates anyway…” she said, very pointedly not looking at you. “Might as well watch it properly.” The screen flickered to life, switching over to a live stream.

Supercopa de España Femenina Final. Barcelona vs. Real Madrid.

The whole room shifted.

Maya whooped, “LET’S GO,” while Liv immediately slid back down into her seat. You didn’t say anything. You just blinked at the screen, lips parting, because there she was.

Alexia.

Leading her team out, wearing the captain’s armband like it was sewn into her skin, calm and focused as ever.

You hadn’t expected this.

Coach glanced at you, just once. “Consider it... team bonding. Club supports club.” You couldn’t wipe the smile off your face even if you tried.

For the next 90 minutes, you and your entire squad were glued to the screen. And what unfolded was absolute domination.

Barcelona came out firing. Real Madrid never stood a chance.

1–0 in the 8th minute.

2–0

3-0 before halftime.

By the time the fourth goal went in, Liv was standing on the bench screaming, and even Coach was nodding in quiet approval.

Then the fifth? Maya started the chant: “Alexia! Alexia!”—and the room joined in without hesitation.

It came in the 85th minute. You could feel it coming before it happened. Alexia picked up the ball at the edge of the box—curled it into the top corner with effortless precision.

The room erupted. Your teammates were on their feet, shouting, cheering, celebrating like it was your final. You didn’t even realise you were standing too until someone pulled you into a hug.

You couldn’t stop smiling. You weren’t even trying to play it cool anymore. The camera cut to Alexia blowing a kiss to the crowd, hand briefly touching the bracelet on her wrist—and your heart flipped. Because even in a 5–0 masterclass, she’d made you feel like part of it.

After the final whistle blew and the Barcelona players lifted the Supercopa trophy, your entire team was clapping, whistling, laughing.

Someone—probably Maya—filmed you with your hands on your head, grinning like an idiot. The video made it online within the hour.

🎥 @[YourTeamHandle] “When your sister team wins the #Supercopa and your locker room goes wild 🇪🇸💙❤️”

[📸: video of your squad celebrating Alexia’s 85th-minute screamer] “No. 11 supporting No. 11. 🫶”

The comments, as always, lost it.

“LOOK AT HER FACE WHEN ALEXIA SCORES 😭😭😭”

“You can’t fake that kind of joy.”

“That is real. That is SPORTSWIFE ENERGY.”

“I’ve never seen someone so proud. She’s LIVING.” “Not the team being fully invested in their captain-in-law.” “Alexia scoring the fifth was like a love letter, I swear.”

Today was the day. Semi final day for you, the buzz of Alexia’s win the night before long forgotten.

The hotel lobby was buzzing with pre-game energy—coaches double-checking schedules, staff sorting gear, players stretching, pacing, zoning in. The team bus was idling out front, clock ticking down to departure for the semifinal.

But before the chaos swept you away, you were granted a moment.

A small pocket of calm.

You stepped through a side corridor near the elevators and found them waiting—your family.

Your mum was already holding her phone up, clearly trying not to cry while snapping a picture of you in full team kit. Your dad, ever the quiet anchor, stood beside her with his arms crossed and the proudest smirk you’d ever seen.

Your older sister, standing tall as ever, was next to your brother and sister-in-law, who gave you a quick wave before nudging your niece forward.

And there she was four years old, bouncing in place, wearing an oversized jersey that nearly swallowed her whole, a tiny version of your number 11 on the back. Her curly hair was tied in two uneven puffs, and she clutched a little homemade sign that read:  

“Go Auntie! Score lots!”

Your heart nearly burst.

You knelt down and opened your arms, and she sprinted toward you, throwing herself into a hug that knocked the air from your lungs—in the best way.

“Are you gonna win?” she asked seriously, peeking up at you with wide, expectant eyes.

“I’m gonna try really hard,” you whispered back, brushing hair from her face. “But even if I don’t, you still proud of me?”

She nodded furiously. “Duh. You’re my hero.”

You blinked hard.

Your brother clapped a hand on your shoulder while your mum quietly dabbed at her eyes. “No matter what happens today,” your dad said, voice thick but steady, “you’ve already made us proud.”

You stood slowly, hugging your mum, then your sister—who whispered in your ear, “Play like it’s for everything.”

“I will,” you promised.

Your brother handed you a folded note. “From all of us. Open in a bit.”

You nodded, carefully tucking it into your bag, right next to your water bottle and your game towel. Your sister-in-law passed you a small paper bracelet—clumsily made, colourful with marker scribbles and the words:  

“Auntie’s magic!"

You tied it on next to the real one.

Just before heading toward the team, you took one last look at them—your family, your why, all standing together, cheering you on like it was the final.

You turned, heart full, focus sharp.

And walked toward the biggest game of your career, carrying their love with you—on your wrist, in your chest, and all the way to the court.

The moment you stepped onto the team bus, it all clicked into place. The pressure didn’t disappear—it sharpened. It no longer felt like a weight to carry. It felt like fuel.

With your duffel slung over your shoulder and your game headphones in place, you slid into your seat, gaze focused out the window. Paris passed by in flashes—grey skies, flashes of traffic, blue and red team flags waving outside the hotel. You could still feel your niece’s tiny arms around your neck, her voice echoing in your head,

“You’re my hero.”

You exhaled slowly, calming your nerves. Maya flopped into the seat across from you, giving you a long look before asking, “You good?”

You nodded. “Better than good.”

She raised an eyebrow, amused. “Family fix that for you?”

You didn’t answer right away—just glanced at your wrist, where two bracelets now sat side-by-side: the Barça-coloured one with the twin 1s… and the new, lopsided ‘Auntie’s Magic’ one, drawn in bright marker by your four-year-old hype woman.

“Something like that,” you murmured with a smile.

The bus rolled forward. No music, no noise yet. Just the quiet rhythm of teammates finding focus in their own ways. Some tapped knees. Others mumbled plays. You closed your eyes briefly, centring yourself.

When you opened them again, you reached into your bag and pulled out the note your brother gave you.

You hesitated—then unfolded it.

The handwriting was messy, full of overlapping words like everyone had squeezed in a line:

No matter the score, we already brag about you like you’re a world champion.

You play with fire. Keep doing that.

From your favourite sibling—you’re the GOAT.

Make history, kid. But mostly—have fun.

At the bottom, in scrawled marker, your niece had written in giant letters:  

GO AUNTIE GO! 

With a crooked heart drawn beside it.

You folded it carefully and placed it inside your jacket pocket—close to your chest.

—

By the time the bus pulled up to the arena, the city had shifted. Milan hummed with electricity. Fans were already outside. Cameras lined the walk toward the tunnel.

The staff gave you the signal. It was time.

You stood with your team in the tunnel, bouncing slightly on your toes, the court just out of view. The arena lights glowed ahead. Whistles, cheers, and chants thundered just beyond the wall.

Your heartbeat synced to it. Maya nudged your arm and leaned in. “Ready?”

You nodded slowly, eyes locked forward. “Let’s make history.”

Then the announcer called your name. And you stepped into the light.

The lights hit you like a wall of heat as you stepped out onto the court. A roar rose from the crowd—not just noise, but energy, thick and alive and vibrating through your chest. The court gleamed beneath your sneakers. Flags waved from the rafters. Music thumped through the speakers as the announcers rattled off names, hyping up the crowd. You barely heard yours—you were already zoning in.

The entire stadium was electric, and you felt it in your bones. You glanced at the scoreboard—still blank, still untouched. The calm before the storm. Your team spread out for warmups. Coaches shouted instructions, but it all faded into the background. Your breathing slowed. You stretched. Let your muscles settle into rhythm.

The minute the coverage started on Alexia’s television it fell quiet, you were all they were talking about, Alexia was locked in on the TV, oblivious to how many of her teammates had joined her for the game “It’s a historic run this Barcelona side have been on, they are dominating in every competition they are competing in, and all talk is putting that down to (your name) she just brings something out these players we didn’t see last year”

“That’s right, the way she moves around the court, her confidence her ability to change the play, the amount of triple doubles this woman has achieved this season has broken all records.”

“Not only is she the leading points scorer she’s also leading in the assists to, she’s not a selfish player. Barcelona really need to lock her down if they want there women’s basketball team to continue to be successful”

“It shocks me they’ve yet to lock her down to a new contract” Alexia furrowed her brows, “It’s crazy to me to bring in a player of her calibre in for only one season. They have her for two more months and then after that, who knows where she’ll end up, but it’ll be a sad day if she leaves Spanish Basketball because what she’s done for the sport here is incredible. Last year you had maybe a thousand people at this game, this year is a packed sold out 19 thousand strong crowd. That’s the your name effect”

“The last we heard there were discussions on keeping her at Barcelona but I did hear she had at least 5 WNBA teams show significant interest in her”

Alexia sat frozen, her grip tightening around the remote as the broadcast continued. The energy in the room had shifted her teammates and family were murmuring about the weight of the moment, but she barely registered it.

She didn’t know. She hadn’t known.

The words echoed in her head, louder than the TV itself. She had always naïvely, not thought about the fact you may not be in Barcelona forever. That Barcelona was as much a home to you as it was to her. That this season wasn’t just a stepping stone but the beginning of something long term.

Her stomach twisted uncomfortably as the analysts continued.

“It would be a shame for Spanish basketball to lose her. What she’s done here is unprecedented.”

“She’s a generational talent—Barcelona need to do everything in their power to keep her.”

“But is that enough? If the WNBA comes calling, how do you say no? That’s the dream right?”

Alexia’s jaw tightened. She didn’t realise she’d stopped breathing until Patri elbowed her lightly.

“You okay?” she asked, chewing popcorn with casual concern.

Alexia nodded quickly. “Fine.”

But she wasn’t.

She had no idea.

She watched as the camera zoomed in on your face during warm-ups—focused, sharp, the bracelets still visible on your wrist. You looked calm. Like you were ready.

But Alexia wasn’t.

Her hands fidgeted in her lap again.

“You think she’d really leave?” one of the younger players asked quietly, almost in awe.

Alexia looked straight ahead, masking her emotion behind a calm, composed smile. “She’s spoken about as one of the best women’s basketball players, if she gets a better offer why wouldn’t she? I wouldn’t blame her either”

But inside? She hated the idea of you leaving.

--

The energy in the arena was suffocating, the kind of electric buzz that crackled in the air and made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. A sold-out 19,000-strong crowd was packed into the stands, screaming themselves hoarse as the final minutes of the game ticked away.

Barcelona: 84 | Opponents: 84 |

15 seconds left

Your chest was heaving, sweat rolling down your temple as you dribbled at the top of the key, eyes flicking across the defence. You’d been battered all night—double teams, hard fouls, and a brutal elbow to the mouth that had left you with a bloody lip in the third quarter. But you weren’t coming off. Not with everything on the line.

Coach hadn’t even needed to draw up the final play. Everyone knew the ball was going to you.

You started your move with 10 seconds left, crossing over, getting your defender on their heels before driving hard to the right. The moment you saw the help defence slide in, you threw it to Maya in the corner. She faked the shot, but her defender closed too fast.

5 seconds left

Maya swung it back to you at the top of the arc. You caught it, planted your feet, and let it fly.

Time slowed.

The ball arced high, spinning perfectly toward the rim as the buzzer sounded—

A second later.

Nothing but net.

Game over.

For a split second, there was silence. Then the arena erupted. The sound hit you like a tidal wave. Deafening. Absolute madness. You barely had time to react before you were tackled Liv was the first to reach you, wrapping her arms around your neck, her legs around your waist, nearly taking you down. Then came Maya, Claudia, the entire bench mob, screaming and jumping as the crowd lost their minds.

Barcelona was going to the final. Second trophy of four coming within touching distance.

The weight of the moment hit you like a freight train. You had done it. For the first time in history, Barcelona’s women’s team was heading to the championship final game, a chance to win the trophy.

The cameras were on you now, someone shoving a mic in your face as you tried to catch your breath. Your lip was still bleeding, your body aching, but all you could do was grin, overwhelmed, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst out of your chest.

You barely heard the reporter’s question. Something about history. Something about pressure. Your mind wasn’t even in the arena anymore. You were just overcome.

The adrenaline was still coursing through your veins as you sat at the press conference table, your jersey still damp with sweat, your lip still split from the brutal elbow in the third quarter. The buzz in the room was electric reporters murmuring excitedly, cameras flashing, your teammates laughing and celebrating beside you.

Barcelona was heading to its first-ever final, and everyone wanted to talk about it. You fielded the first few questions easily—your thoughts on the game, the atmosphere, that buzzer-beater. You grinned as Liv elbowed you playfully when the reporter called it one of the most clutch shots in Barcelona basketball history.

“I mean, we knew the ball was going to her,” Maya said into her mic, shooting you a knowing look. “We’d be idiots not to. She lives for moments like that. She’s the only person I’ve ever met that loves that pressure”

Laughter rippled through the room, and you smirked, shaking your head. “I don’t know about living for it, I just didn’t want to go to overtime.”

The reporters ate it up, the cameras flashing faster. But then, the question came. Direct, cutting through the energy like a cold blade.

“There’s been a lot of talk about your contract situation (Your name), with Barcelona only having you under contract for two more months. Given the WNBA interest, is this your last season here?”

The laughter died instantly. Your teammates shifted beside you, the air in the room changing as every reporter leaned forward, recorders in hand. You didn’t hesitate. You set your mic down, leaned back in your chair, and exhaled sharply before giving a blunt, final answer.

“Now’s not the time for that conversation.” Your tone left zero room for follow-up. Cold. Unshakable. Maya smirked beside you, clearly amused by the tension in the room. Some of your other teammates chuckled under their breath, but the message was loud and clear. You weren’t talking about it. Not now. Not when your team was on the verge of history. The reporter opened his mouth to push, but you didn’t let him. You leaned forward, eyes sharp, and said, “Next question.”

Silence.

Then, slowly, another reporter spoke up, pivoting the conversation back to the game, to the championship ahead. The room exhaled, the pressure shifting. But your message had been sent. The press conference had settled back into its usual rhythm—questions about the game, the team’s mindset heading into the final when a reporter in the back cleared his throat, steering the conversation somewhere you hadn’t expected.

“We noticed Alexia Putellas wasn’t in the arena tonight for such a historic moment. She’s been seen at several of your games this season. Was there a reason for her absence?”

You barely blinked, but you felt Maya shift beside you, clearly sensing the sudden shift in energy. The room waited, pens poised, recorders held a little closer. You kept your tone even, uninterested in feeding the media anything extra. “Alexia has her own season to focus on. She’s a professional she’s got her own priorities. She and her team won the Supercopa not a couple of hours ago, she’s busy”

The reporter pressed on. “Still, considering the magnitude of this win, one might have expected her to be here. Does her absence say anything about your friendship..relationship?”

Your jaw clenched for a fraction of a second, but you smoothed it out before anyone could catch it. “I don’t see how this is relevant to basketball,” you replied, voice firm, shutting it down before it could become a headline. Liv smirked beside you, clearly entertained by your bluntness, while a few of your other teammates stifled amused glances.

The reporter hesitated before reluctantly pivoting back to questions about the game. But even as you fielded the next round of inquiries, something nagged at you. Because they didn’t know. They didn’t know she had unintentionally set up a watch party. They didn’t know she had spent the entire night glued to the screen, watching your every move, wearing your jersey. They had no idea that she had been just as invested—if not more—than the people screaming in the stands.

But for the first time, she had chosen to stay in the background. And that meant something. You were ignoring the glaringly obvious reason that you were in Paris. She back in Madrid hours post her own win.

Your phone buzzed on the table beside you—face down, out of sight—but you knew. You just knew.

It was her.

And suddenly, the game, the questions, the noise of the press room—it all faded.

Because whatever Alexia had to say? That was the only thing that mattered now

You subtly flipped it over, glancing at the screen.

Alexia: You looked good out there. Even with the bloody lip. Kinda hot, actually.

You bit your lip to keep from grinning, shaking your head when the pain shot through you. But before you could type a response, Liv, sitting beside you, leaned over just enough to catch a glimpse of the message.

A slow, knowing smirk spread across her face.

“Ohhh,” she murmured under her breath, barely audible over the noise of Maya answering a question in her usual professional articulate manner. “That was not a ‘congrats on the win’ text.”

You shot her a side-eye, trying—and failing—to keep a straight face. “Mind your business.”

Liv simply leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, thoroughly enjoying herself. “Can’t help it when it’s right there.”

Alexia: So, are we gonna talk about how you nearly gave me a heart attack? Or should I just accept that you enjoy stressing me out?

You exhaled sharply through your nose, a small smirk creeping onto your lips. Liv leaned in slightly, managing to catch a glimpse of the message before you could lock your phone.

You: I like keeping you on your toes.

Alexia’s response came immediately.

Alexia: We’ll see how much you like it when you get back here.

“Ohhh,” she whispered under her breath, barely moving her lips, eyes sparkling with mischief. “She’s mad. Mad.”

You bit back a laugh, keeping your face neutral, though the corners of your mouth twitched.

Still staring ahead at the next reporter, Liv nudged your knee under the table, mouthing, “You’re in trouble.”

That was it. You lost it. You tried to hold back the laugh, but the way Liv was fighting her own smile made it impossible. A small snicker escaped, and Marta, sitting on the other side of Liv, turned toward you in confusion.

“Something funny?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

You cleared your throat, masking your laughter with a cough, but Liv was no help her shoulders were shaking silently as she desperately avoided eye contact. When you both made eye contact you both burst out laughing, you covered your face as you laughed, “What’s so funny?”

“It’s not even funny” you laughed, your laugh was winding down but soon as you looked at Liv again you lost it again, “I’m sorry”

Maria squinted suspiciously before shaking her head, returning her focus to the press. “You now know the answer to why we never normally have these two in the same press conference”

Your phone buzzed you peered

Alexia: If you’re laughing at me, I won’t be happy

You tilted your phone to Liv who’s mouth dropped

Liv finally whispered under her breath, still grinning, “You’re so dead.”

You just smirked, tapping out a quick reply. “Sorry, what was your question?” You glanced as your thumbs were still moving

You: Are you ever happy?

You as a sign put your phone in your lap, cheeks warming slightly, and shot Liv a look.

She read everything from your face and chuckled, muttering, “Yup. You’re so done for.” You exhaled, shaking your head, but your grin never faded. Because you weren’t sure if Alexia was mad, exasperated, or just playing with you. But one thing was clear you couldn’t wait to find out.

The press conference didn’t go on much longer, Maya, nudged you. “You ready to get out of here?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, standing up and pocketing your phone, avoiding Liv’s smug look.

As you all made your way out of the press room, Liv caught your arm for just a second, whispering, “Tell her I said ‘hi.’”

You snorted, shaking your head as you pushed the door open. “You’re annoying.”

Liv grinned, eyes twinkling. “And yet, you love me.”

You laughed, shaking off the last of your nerves. Whatever was waiting in Alexia’s next message, you’d deal with it soon enough. 

The second you stepped into the locker room, away from the cameras and press, you pulled out your phone. Your teammates were still riding the high of the win, laughing and chatting as they made their way each grab bottles of the awaiting celebratory drinks, but your focus was entirely on your phone.

Alexia: They’re replaying you looking all moody after the elbow. It’s sexy.

You tapped on Alexia’s message, your fingers hovering over the keyboard.

You: Oh, so now you like me bloody and bruised? Good to know.

A few seconds passed, then

Alexia: Always knew you were tough, but seeing it like that? Yeah… definitely not a bad look.

You chuckled under your breath, shaking your head. Just as you were about to respond, Liv brushed past you, tossing a teasing look over her shoulder.

“Tell her to keep it in her pants,” she quipped, loud enough for Mayam and a few others to hear.

Maya perked up immediately. “Ohhh, Alexia? What’s she saying?”

You shot Liv a glare while Maya practically lunged to peek at your phone. You pulled it away just in time. “Nothing. Mind your business.”

“Not a chance,” Maya grinned. “You’re all over the news, and your ‘not-girlfriend’ is suddenly very chatty? We’re invested.”

“Deeply invested,” Liv added, clearly enjoying herself.

You rolled your eyes, shoving your phone into your jacket pocket. “You’re all unbearable.”

“You love us,” Maya quipped.

You sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately.”

The teasing continued as you fully engaged in the chanting and banging of the walls, but the moment you had a second to yourself after they’d subsided, you pulled your phone back out.

You: How’s my biggest fan feeling after watching that?

Alexia’s reply was almost instant.

Alexia: Proud. Also, frustrated because you’re an idiot for not dodging that elbow more the I watch it.

You grinned, leaning against the locker.

You: Part of the game

Alexia: Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

You hesitated for a moment, fingers tapping against the screen. The conversation was lighthearted, teasing, but something about her words, about her absence tonight lingered in your mind.

You: Wish you were there.

A pause. Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.

Alexia: Me too.

You exhaled slowly, staring at the message. For the first time all night, the win, the noise, the celebration—it all faded into the background. Because this wasn’t just some playful back-and-forth. This was something else entirely. It was too much for you so you changed the tone throwing Alexia for a loop

You: Was a good game you’d of learned a lot.

The locker room was buzzing, music blasting, champagne already being popped despite Coach’s weak protests, teammates laughing, reliving the final moments of the game like they hadn’t just lived it in real-time. You should’ve been fully in the moment. But your eyes kept flicking to your phone, Alexia’s last message sitting heavy in your mind.

Me too.

It wasn’t just words. It wasn’t just a casual response. It meant something.

“Are you even here right now?” Liv’s voice broke through your thoughts, amusement dripping from her tone. She leaned on the locker next to you, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.

You blinked, forcing a smirk. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Liv scoffed. “Mmm-hmm. And I’m the Pope.”

You rolled your eyes, pocketing your phone. “Drop it.”

Maya, freshly drenched in celebratory champagne, appeared on your other side, grinning ear to ear. “Oh, no way. What’s going on?”

“Alexia,” Liv answered for you, smirking.

Maya’s eyes lit up. “Ooooh. Did she finally confess her undying love? Is she proposing? Did she—”

You shoved her lightly. “You two need hobbies.”

Liv shrugged. “This is our hobby.”

Maya nodded, completely serious. “You’re far more interesting than our actual lives.”

Before you could respond, your phone buzzed again. You felt both Liv and Maya shift to peek over your shoulder. You turned your back immediately, shooting them a warning glare. “Touch grass, both of you.”

Maya clutched her chest dramatically. “You’ve changed.” Ignoring them, you pulled out your phone, your heart kicking up just a little faster.

Alexia: I’m still up.

A slow smirk forming on your lips

You: What a coincidence. Me too.

Alexia: Call me when you’re done celebrating?

There it was again. Something unspoken.

You stared at the message for a second before quickly typing back.

You: Give me ten minutes.

You felt eyes on you and turned to find Liv and Maya grinning like they’d just won the lottery.

Maya held up her hands. “I won’t ask.”

Liv, however, smirked. “Just don’t say anything stupid when you call her.”

You scoffed. “When do I ever say anything stupid?”

Both of them exchanged a look.

Maya patted your shoulder sympathetically. “Godspeed.”

Shaking your head, you grabbed your jacket and slipped out of the locker room, your pulse quickening just a little. Because as much as you loved celebrating with your team, there was only one person you wanted to talk to right now. And she was waiting for your call.

The night air was crisp as you stepped outside the arena, the distant sounds of celebration still echoing from inside. You pulled your jacket tighter around you, took a deep breath, and tapped Alexia’s name on your phone. It barely rang once before she picked up.

“Took you long enough,” Alexia teased, her voice warm and familiar.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Had to survive the post-game interrogation first. Liv and Maya were unbearable.”

Alexia laughed softly, and the sound instantly eased the last of your nerves. “Let me guess—they saw my texts?”

“Oh yeah. They were ready to write fanfiction.”

Alexia hummed knowingly. “Sounds about right.” A comfortable silence settled for a second, the weight of the game, the win, and the night still lingering between you. “So,” Alexia started, her voice softer now. “How does it feel? You just made history.”

You exhaled, rubbing the back of your neck. “Honestly? It still doesn’t feel real.”

“It is.”

Her certainty made something settle deep in your chest. “I just wish you were there,” you admitted before you could stop yourself.

There was a pause on her end, then a soft sigh. “Me too.” The sincerity in her voice made your heart skip. “I wanted to be,” she continued. “I had the whole watch party going, but it wasn’t the same.”

You smiled slightly, picturing her in your jersey, surrounded by her teammates, Alba probably making a whole event out of it. “You had a whole crowd watching me?”

“Of course,” she said simply. “I wasn’t missing that.”

Your stomach flipped, warmth spreading through your chest. “Well, we’re in the final now,” you said, trying to keep your tone light. “Plenty of time to show up.”

Alexia chuckled softly, but there was something unspoken in the pause that followed. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Plenty of time.”

But you both knew that wasn’t entirely true. The unspoken thing—the contract, the future, the uncertainty—hung between you like an invisible thread, waiting to be pulled. You weren’t ready for that conversation tonight. So instead, you teased, “You’re still picturing me with a bloody lip, aren’t you?”

Alexia laughed, a little breathless. “I hate how well you know me.”

You smirked. “I have a talent for reading you.”

“Oh yeah?” she mused. “Then what am I thinking right now?”

You pretended to consider. “Hmm… you’re wondering when I’m getting on a plane back to Barcelona.” Her silence spoke volumes. “Am I wrong?” you pressed.

“Not even a little,” Alexia admitted.

You grinned, shifting on your feet. “Soon.”

“Good,” she said, her voice softer now. “I’ll be waiting.” You exhaled, the weight of the night suddenly feeling a lot lighter. “Try to get some sleep tonight, cariño,” she murmured, her voice sending warmth through you. “You’ve got a final to prepare for.”

You smiled. “And you’ve got a flight to book to Paris.” The final was in Paris.

She laughed, shaking her head. “Go celebrate, idiot.”

“Goodnight, Alexia.”

“Goodnight.”

You ended the call, exhaling deeply, the city buzzing around you. You had just made history. But somehow, she was still the only thing on your mind.

The streets of Paris were alive, buzzing with energy, but nothing matched the euphoria radiating from you and your teammates as you spilled out of the team bus and into the bar your coach had reserved. The night was yours, and for once, you weren’t thinking about anything else—not Alexia, not the contract talks, not the endless media speculation.

Tonight was about celebrating.

The adrenaline was still coursing through your veins as you stepped out of the hotel lobby, where a fleet of black cars was waiting to take the team to your celebratory dinner. The night air was crisp, the city still buzzing from the historic win just hours earlier.

Inside the cars, the mood was electric—laughter, cheers, and even an impromptu chant started by Maya that had the entire squad hyped all over again.

“You do realise we only made the final, right?” Liv teased, adjusting the sleek blazer she had opted for instead of a dress. “Not saying we shouldn’t be celebrating, but it’s not like we won the whole thing yet.”

Maya rolled her eyes dramatically. “Please. We made history tonight. Do you know how many Barcelona teams before us have tried and failed to do this?”

“All of them,” Claudia added, grinning. “So yeah, we celebrate.”

When you pulled up to the restaurant—a high-end spot that the club had booked out exclusively for the team and staff—you were met with flashes of cameras from across the street. The media was already outside, eager to get a glimpse of the team that had just shaken the entire league.

Inside, the energy was even louder. The coaching staff, club executives, and even a few familiar faces from other Barcelona teams were there, raising glasses in your honour. As you took your seat at a long, lavishly set table, a waiter immediately poured you a glass of champagne.

“To making history!” one of the coaches toasted, raising his glass.

The entire room erupted, glasses clinking, cheers echoing against the walls. You leaned back slightly, taking it all in—the faces of your teammates, your team, all of you standing on the precipice of something massive. Dinner was chaotic in the best way possible—stories from the game, wild reenactments of the final shot, playful jabs at each other for missed free throws or sloppy turnovers. Someone started a tally of who had gotten the most fouls throughout the season, and of course, your name was high on the list.

“This one,” Liv announced dramatically, pointing at you with her fork, “has personally put at least five people on the injured list this season.”

You held up your hands in innocence. “Not my fault they don’t move fast enough.”

Maya howled in laughter. “They’re still talking about that brutal screen you set last month.”

Liv shook her head, sipping her drink. “You love being the villain.”

You smirked, raising your glass. “Only if it gets us the win.”

By the time dessert came around, the mood had shifted slightly—still celebratory, but also a little more reflective.

“We really did it, huh?” Marta mused, stirring her spoon in her coffee.

“We’re not done yet,” the team captain reminded her. “One more.”

“One more,” you echoed, nodding. And that was the reality of it. The biggest game of your career was still ahead. But tonight was about the journey. About this team. And about taking a second to appreciate the moment before the real battle began. 

rearrange my world | stargirl

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader, olga rios x teen!reader

summary: your whole world changes with one tiny person

notes: the one yall have been waiting for. also subtle name reveal for estrella 🙏🏾🙏🏾

The whistle blew and the stadium erupted. The final score flashed across the screen 6-0. Barça. Your name was still echoing around the stands from that absolute screamer you’d buried top corner in the 89th minute. Your teammates had tackled you to the ground in celebration, Jana had kissed your forehead, and Lucy had deadlifted you like a sack of potatoes.

After the chaos settled, you started doing your usual post-game rounds— signing shirts, posing for photos, throwing your sweat-drenched jersey into a sea of eager hands. You even took a baby for a selfie. Not with a baby. For a baby. The parents said she was a big fan. You didn’t ask questions.

Eventually, you made your way toward the stands where you knew they’d be, your people. Soleil was perched on the edge of her seat like she always was, practically vibrating with excitement. Olga was standing next to her, a hand on her baby bump and an oversized Barça hoodie draped over her shoulders. But there was already someone there, Alexia. Of course. She always managed to beat you when it came to Olga radar.

You jogged over, climbing the little divider with unnecessary flair, nearly tripping over your own feet. “Hey, move! It’s my moment!” you shouted as you flopped dramatically next to them.

Alexia rolled her eyes but smiled. “You scored one goal. Relax.”

“It was a screamer!” you huffed, looking to Soleil for backup.

“She screamed,” Soleil nodded solemnly. “But I think it was more about the knee slide into the cameraman.”

“Semantics,” you muttered, before turning to Olga. “Did you see it?”

Olga was mid-nod when she suddenly froze and hissed. Her hands flew to her stomach. You, Soleil, and Alexia all stopped speaking.

Olga’s face twisted. “Ah—wait—ah—ow—that’s not normal.”

You and Alexia instantly panicked in the most coordinated, unhelpful way possible.

“She’s going into labor!” you shrieked.

“She’s going into labor,” Alexia repeated, eyes wide.

“Call someone!” you both shouted at the same time, looking at each other like idiots.

“I’m someone!” Soleil said, already on her feet, completely calm. She helped Olga sit down on the nearest bench and pulled out her phone. “I’m calling the hospital.”

You were pacing in a circle, muttering things like “the baby is coming,” “I’m not ready to be a sister,” and “I don’t even have snacks packed.”

Alexia was frantically googling “What to do if your girlfriend gives birth in Camp Nou,” while also holding Olga’s hand and whispering “Breathe. Just breathe. Do people still breathe during this? Is that outdated?”

Meanwhile, Soleil had already flagged down security, arranged for the car to be brought around, and was now gently guiding Olga to the exit while both you and Alexia followed like panicked ducklings.

“I’M DRIVING,” you declared, keys in hand.

“You are absolutely not,” Soleil said, snatching them. “You don’t even know where the hospital is.”

“I know the vibe,” you argued.

“You once ended up in Andorra because you followed ‘the vibe,’” Alexia added.

The ride to the hospital was chaos. Olga was groaning dramatically, but still very much coherent.

“If either of you say push one more time, I will push you out of the car,” she warned.

You and Alexia sat in the back, both holding her hands, trying to out-comfort each other.

“Your breathing is perfect, amor,” Alexia whispered.

“Your aura is glowing, Mami,” you added, slightly louder.

Soleil drove like a saint, nodding along to Olga’s directions and occasionally muttering “we are literally the worst emergency support system in history.”

When you finally got to the hospital, the nurses rushed to take Olga in while you dramatically told the front desk that “a miracle is happening and it’s in that belly!”

Alexia followed closely, still googling things out loud. “It says here labor can last forty hours. Do you have snacks? Should I Uber snacks? Should we boil water? That’s a thing, right?”

Soleil rolled her eyes so hard you thought they might stick. “She’s not even in active labor. You two are embarrassing.”

After some monitoring and very unimpressed nurses, a doctor finally came out and said, “It’s just Braxton Hicks. False labor. You can take her home.”

There was a long pause.

You and Alexia blinked. “Braxton who?”

“Braxton Hicks,” the doctor repeated.

“That sounds like a Chelsea midfielder,” you whispered.

“It sounds made up,” Alexia said, crossing her arms.

But there was Olga, sitting on the hospital bed with a blanket wrapped around her and the most exhausted smile. “I’m fine. It was a false alarm.”

Soleil turned to you both. “Would you like to apologize now or in the car?”

You and Alexia looked at each other and said in perfect unison, “We panicked.”

Olga just shook her head, chuckling softly. “You two are lucky you’re cute.” Then she grabbed Soleil’s hand. “She’s the only one who didn’t add to my contractions.”

As you all left the hospital, Alexia put an arm around your shoulders. “We should probably take a birth class.”

“Can I bring snacks?” you asked.

“No,” Soleil muttered.

“Braxton Hicks,” you repeated quietly to yourself, like you still didn’t believe it.

“Sounds fake,” Alexia mumbled.

Olga just groaned. “You two are so not being in the delivery room.”

It started at breakfast, Olga winced slightly as she shifted in her seat, one hand settling on her belly.

You froze, mid-bite of your toast. “Mami…?”

Alexia, pouring tea, turned around instantly. “Are you okay?”

Olga let out a soft laugh. “Relax, it’s just Braxton Hicks again. False alarm.”

You and Alexia looked at each other like the world was ending. Alexia put down the kettle with a clatter. “That’s what you said last time and then you couldn’t stand for ten minutes.”

You stood up, already reaching for your phone. “Should we go to the hospital?”

“No!” Olga reached for your hand to keep you from spiraling. “It’s fine. I’ve got this.”

At the grocery store, it happened again.

You were helping her pick out snacks when she leaned forward against the cart and winced.

You gasped so loud the man in the next aisle turned his head. “Oh my god, is it time?”

Alexia, holding a bag of rice, dropped it. “Wait, did your water break? Should I call the doctor?!”

Olga rolled her eyes. “No! Just another one.”

You started Googling. “But what if it’s like… one of those stealth births?! Where the baby just like, pfft, slips out?!”

Alexia looked visibly pale. Olga just waddled away slowly, mumbling something about letting her finish her damn shopping.

After a routine appointment, you were all sitting in the car when she grabbed the side of her seat.

You screamed. “She’s in labor!”

Alexia dropped her keys. “I’ll drive! I’ll— Wait. Should I call Alba? Do we need reinforcements?!”

Olga groaned. “Stop yelling!”

You climbed halfway into the front seat. “Is she crowning?! I can’t see!”

“I SWEAR TO GOD, ESTRELLA.”

At bedtime, she was brushing her teeth when she hunched forward again.

You tripped over the laundry basket rushing to her. Alexia dropped her phone and fell off the bed in a panic.

Olga sighed, her face still calm. “It’s. Just. Braxton. Hicks.”

You and Alexia were shaking like leaves the rest of the night.

Finally, finally, it was a quiet afternoon. You, Soleil, and Olga were piled together on the living room couch, half-buried under blankets, watching the kind of cheesy, over-the-top romantic comedy you always pretended to hate but secretly loved. Soleil’s head was on your shoulder, her fingers absentmindedly tracing slow shapes on the back of your hand. Olga was curled against a cushion with one arm draped across her belly, her swollen stomach rising and falling as she chuckled at something on screen.

Everything was soft. Safe. Still.

“I’m getting more popcorn,” Olga said suddenly, shifting upright with a grunt.

You immediately sat up too. “No, no, I’ll get it for you!”

She shook her head with that little smile that always meant no use arguing. “I need to move, mami. You and Alexia have me bubble-wrapped. Sound familiar?”

You pouted dramatically. “You’re so stubborn.”

“Hmm.” She smirked as she waddled off toward the kitchen. “Wonder where I got that one from.”

You watched her go, then turned to Soleil with a playful nudge. “She’s gonna regret saying that when she realizes she can’t even reach the top shelf.”

But just a couple minutes later, a sharp gasp echoed from the kitchen. Then came Olga’s voice. Breathless. “Uhm… my water just broke.”

You froze. Soleil stood up slowly, calm already settling over her like a blanket. “Okay. Okay. Breathe. Estrella—grab the bag and start the car.”

You were already gone. Vaulted over the coffee table. Nearly ripped the front door off its hinges. You yanked the hospital bag from where it had been waiting by the entrance for weeks and sprinted outside.

Then you stopped dead. “THE KEYS!” you screamed into the void, whirling around like they’d magically appear in the driveway.

You thundered back inside, socked feet skidding across the tile. “WHERE ARE THE KEYS?”

“Estrella!” Olga groaned, half-laughing, half-dying. “Just get me to the car!”

Between frantic scrambling and Soleil keeping her steady, you finally got her down the steps and into the backseat. Soleil climbed in beside her, already dialing Alexia while murmuring soft instructions, “Keep breathing, that’s it, lean back, I’ve got you.”

You drove like an absolute menace. Ran a red light. Cut across a roundabout. Screamed at a Vespa. Soleil didn’t even flinch. She was in the back with Olga, voice gentle, fingers rubbing soothing circles on her arm while she gave Alexia a quick rundown of the situation.

By the time you screeched into the hospital’s emergency drop-off zone, Alexia was already there— hair still damp from the gym, shoes half on, worry written all over her face.

But things moved fast. Too fast. The doctors didn’t like what they were hearing from the monitors. The baby’s heartbeat was irregular. They said they had to assist with the delivery. It was go-time. You watched with bated breath as Alexia clutched Olga’s hand as she was wheeled away.

You were left behind. You and Soleil. Just sitting there in the sterile, humming quiet of the waiting room.

You couldn’t sit. Couldn’t breathe. You paced back and forth, chewing at your nails, bouncing your leg, running your fingers through your hair until it was sticking up in every direction. Soleil tried everything— held your hands, made you sit, tried breathing exercises, even offered to braid your hair to calm you, but nothing worked.

You were too afraid. Not just for the baby. But for Olga. Your mother. You couldn’t lose her.

Eli showed up first. She didn’t say anything. Just wrapped you in a massive, grounding hug and didn’t let go until your hands stopped shaking.

Then came Alba.

Alba, who took one look at your wrecked state, grabbed your shoulders, and pushed you down into a seat with a pointed stare.

“She’s going to be okay,” Alba said firmly. “You love her, right?” You nodded fast.

“Then trust her and the doctors. Olga is strong, you know this.”

That made something shift in you. Just a little. Just enough to take a breath. Just enough to sit still. And then, finally, Alexia came out.

“She’s okay,” she said, voice thick, tears glistening in her eyes. “The baby’s okay. Olga’s okay.” You nearly collapsed right there.

“She wants you,” Alexia added gently. “She’s asking for you.”

You ran. Through the doors, past the nurses, straight to the room. You didn’t go to the baby first. You couldn’t. You needed to see her.

You rushed to Olga’s side, cupping her face in your hands. “Are you okay? Are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay,” you whispered over and over.

She nodded with tears in her eyes, her hand finding yours and squeezing tightly. “We’re okay, bebita. We’re okay.”

Only then did you turn. And there she was.

The tiniest thing you’d ever seen. Swaddled in soft pink blankets, wriggling gently in her bassinet. Her skin was flushed, her eyes blinking slow and curious. A head full of dark hair. Little fists that already looked ready to throw hands.

You stepped forward, breath caught in your throat.

“Can I—?”

Olga smiled. “Go on. Hold her.”

You picked her up like she was made of glass. And the moment she settled into your arms, your entire body broke open. Tears welled up instantly, your shoulders shaking.

“She’s so perfect,” you whispered.

Olga’s voice was soft, but sure. “Do you want to know her name?”

You looked at her, blinking through tears. Alexia smiled gently. “Valerie Celestina Putellas.”

You couldn’t breathe. Your legs gave out, and you sat in the chair next to Olga’s bed, clutching your baby sister like she was everything.

“You named her after me?” your voice cracked.

“Of course,” Olga said, her hand stroking your back. “So she always has a piece of her big sister with her. So even when you’re out in the world doing your thing, she’ll still have you close.”

You sobbed. Couldn’t stop. Could barely speak through the tears.

After everything. After the abandonments. After sleeping on couches. After courtrooms and broken promises and crying yourself to sleep wondering if anyone was ever going to want you. Now you had a family. And you had her. Valerie Celestina.

Forever.

❤️❤️

Apart of Perfect Shot Series

You and Alexia tell your family and friends

Another evening, as you changed into one of Alexia’s oversized hoodies to head out for a casual dinner with some of her teammates, she stood in the doorway watching you yet again

You caught her smirk in the mirror. “What?”

Alexia’s grin grew. “You think no one’s going to notice if you keep dressing like that?”

You tugged at the hoodie, making a face. “It’s comfortable.”

She walked forward, arms slipping around your waist, hands immediately finding your bump. “It’s obvious,” she murmured, her thumbs brushing the curve. “You’re getting rounder.”

You groaned dramatically. “That’s what you want to say to your pregnant wife?”

She laughed, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I love it,” she murmured.

You sighed, melting into her touch. “It’s getting harder to hide.”

“Why are we hiding it?” she teased. “We should get you a shirt that says, ‘Pregnant with a footballing legend.’”

You rolled your eyes. “No one is finding out until the all ok on the next scan. That’s the rule.”

Alexia huffed. “Fine. But after that, I’m buying you all the tightest maternity shirts.”

You smirked. “I’d like to see you try.”

—

It starts off slowly—small things.  

Burt, your gentle giant, begins following you more closely than usual, shadowing you from room to room like your fluffy, silent bodyguard. Ernie, your little stubby-legged sidekick, starts curling up right at your feet every time you sit, instead of his usual spot squished up next to Burt or on his throne of pillows.  

At first, you think it’s just them reacting to how unwell you’ve been. You’re barely eating, you nap constantly, and your movements are slower, cautious. They’re just being protective.  

But then, one morning, it becomes obvious.  

You’re stretched out on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket with a mug of cold ginger tea resting on the coffee table. Alexia is in the kitchen, fussing with toast and muttering to herself in Catalan about how plain crackers shouldn’t be this hard to make appealing.  

Burt ambles over first, lumbering with his usual lazy grace, and without hesitation, lowers his head and rests it gently—delicately—on your stomach.  

You blink, freezing for a second.  

“Hi, buddy,” you murmur, scratching his ear. “You comfy there?”  

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t nudge. Just… rests.  

And then Ernie trots over, climbs halfway onto your lap like he’s always done, and nudges his little head just under Burt’s, resting it right against your belly.  

You stare down at them, a lump forming in your throat.  

They know.  

Somehow, without being told, without a single ultrasound photo or whispered secret, they know.  

They know there’s someone new in there.  

Alexia walks in and stops mid-step, eyes softening instantly at the sight of all three of you. “Mira’t,” she says gently, smiling so wide it makes your chest ache.  

“They know,” you whisper, your hand resting on Burt’s big, warm head. “They know I’m pregnant.”  

Alexia comes to kneel by the sofa, brushing a hand across Ernie’s back and then resting the other gently on top of yours. “Of course they do,” she says softly. “They’re family.”  

You glance down at the two of them—Ernie snoring softly, Burt’s eyes watching you like he’s guarding something sacred.  

“They’re going to be so good with the baby,” you whisper.  

Alexia kisses your temple, her hand still over yours, over your belly, over everything the four of you are now protecting.  

“They already are.”

—

It was already one of those days where everything felt like it was moving too fast.  

The crucial scan was scheduled for 5:30pm—a big one. The kind where you’d finally be far enough along to see real definition, measure growth, maybe even hear more than just the rapid-fire thump of a heartbeat.  

You were nervous. So nervous.  

And Alexia was still at training.  

She’d promised—sworn—she’d be done by 4:30, back home by 5:00, and the two of you would go together, hand in hand like you always did.  

But 4:45 came. Then 5:00.  

And you were still standing in the hallway, dressed, holding your water bottle and your folder of notes and appointment letters, watching the front door like it might open on its own.  

Your phone buzzed.  

Alexia 🖤  

Training ran over. I’m trying to leave now. Don’t wait. I’ll meet you there. I’m sorry, mi amor. I’m coming as fast as I can.

You stared at the message, heart sinking slightly. You understood—God, you did. It wasn’t her fault. She’d been pulled for media, and then a short team talk had somehow turned into a full breakdown of the last three matches.

But still.  

You wanted her there.  

Especially today.  

---

By the time you made it to the clinic, your hands were shaking slightly, your nerves setting in. You checked in, sat down, and texted her.  

You: In the waiting room. Room 4. I’ll stall them if I can.  

No reply.  

You assumed she was driving.  

The nurse called your name at 5:37. You stood, hesitating—wanting to beg for just five more minutes—but the words wouldn’t come.  

You followed her in, lying down on the exam table, the same room where you’d been told there was no heartbeat. You hoped it wasn’t an omen.

Your eyes fluttered shut. Please, please let this be different.

Just as the nurse rolled the machine closer, the door burst open.  

Alexia.  

Out of breath, flushed from sprinting, her Barça hoodie half-zipped, boots clomping awkwardly against the linoleum floor.  

“Lo siento, lo siento, lo siento,” she panted, holding up a hand to the nurse as she crossed the room in two long strides. “I ran from the car park. I’m here. I’m here.”  

You let out a shaky breath that turned into a laugh, and the nurse gave you both a soft smile. “Perfect timing. Let’s take a look, shall we?”  

Alexia immediately took your hand, her forehead resting against yours for a second. “Never again,” she whispered. “I swear, I’ll walk out mid-training next time if I have to.”  

You squeezed her fingers. “You’re here. That’s what matters.”  

And then—  

The sound.  

That perfect, powerful heartbeat, stronger than last time.  

And on the screen a tiny, clear shape. Arms. Legs. Movement.  

Your baby.  

You felt Alexia's hand tremble in yours as the two of you stared, breathless, overwhelmed, absolutely undone.  

She whispered, voice cracking, “That’s our baby.”  

And this time, you were both exactly where you were meant to be.

—

The soft whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of the heartbeat fills the room like music. You can feel Alexia’s grip on your hand tighten, not painfully—just grounding, like she needs to hold onto something before her heart floats right out of her chest.

The nurse smiles at both of you, adjusting the angle of the probe slightly. “Your baby is measuring beautifully,” she says kindly, her voice warm and calm. “Let me show you a few things.”

You both lean closer to the screen, eyes wide as the grainy black and white image pulses with life.

“Here’s the head,” she says, pointing gently with her cursor. “You can see the curve of the skull here, and this shadow is the brain starting to form. Strong and symmetrical.”

You gasp quietly, heart stuttering. “That’s their head?”

Alexia’s face is soft with awe, her eyes fixed to the monitor like it holds the entire universe. “Dios mío…”

“And right here,” the nurse continues, shifting the view slightly, “are the arms—little hands starting to form at the end.” She chuckles softly. “Look at those fingers.”

You actually see them. Tiny, wiggling, real fingers.

“They’re moving,” you whisper, voice caught in your throat. “They’re really moving.”

“They’re practicing already,” the nurse grins. “Busy little one.”

You look over at Alexia, whose eyes are completely glassy, her lips parted in stunned wonder. She hasn’t blinked once.

She clears her throat, voice slightly hoarse. “Our baby has hands.”

“And feet,” the nurse adds, tilting the probe again. “Look at those toes.”

You both laugh, and you feel a tear finally slip free, tracing a warm path down your cheek. Alexia catches it with her thumb before it can fall further.

The nurse takes a few more measurements before clicking a button. “Would you like a printout of the scan?” she asks gently.

You nod immediately. “Yes, please.”

Alexia, still slightly in shock, lifts her hand. “Can we—uh, can we get more? Like, the extras? Whatever you have.”

The nurse raises an eyebrow, amused. “Photos, USB, key rings, digital files?”

“All of it,” Alexia says without missing a beat, reaching into her jacket for her wallet. “We want everything.”

You snort a laugh, your heart swelling. “Are you buying out the baby merch stand?”

“If I could frame the heartbeat and hang it in the hallway, I would,” she says without a hint of irony.

The nurse chuckles, handing you a warm set of glossy scan prints. “Here’s your first photo album, then.”

You take them in trembling fingers, staring down at the blurry but perfect image of your baby, your heart thudding in time with theirs.

Alexia wraps an arm around you as you sit up slowly, careful not to smudge the prints with your fingertips.

You lean into her shoulder and whisper, “We’re really doing this, aren’t we?”

She presses a kiss into your hair, her voice low and steady. “Yeah, mi amor. We are. And they already have the best nose I’ve ever seen.”

You laugh into her shoulder, holding the scan to your chest. And for the first time, in a long time, your joy doesn’t feel careful.

It just feels real.

—

The car is quiet. The kind of quiet that feels sacred.  

You're parked just outside the clinic, the soft hum of Barcelona’s evening settling around you, people passing by unaware that in the small, private world of your car, something extraordinary has just happened.  

Alexia sits in the driver’s seat, keys still in the ignition but engine off, her body angled toward you, legs tucked slightly beneath her as she holds the envelope of scan photos like it’s made of glass.  

You’re beside her, curled slightly sideways in your seat, seatbelt off, one leg folded under the other, eyes still fixed on the black and white print in your hands.  

The baby is small, but there’s no denying they’re there. A shape. A form. Arms. Legs. Fingers. A heartbeat.  

“Look,” Alexia says softly, holding one of the scans up to the light as if it’ll help her memorise every single detail. “That’s their little hand. You can see it.”  

You nod, eyes welling again. “I know. I still can’t believe it’s real.”  

Alexia gently slides one of the scans into your lap, her voice reverent. “This one’s my favourite. The profile… they have your nose.”  

You let out a wet laugh, dabbing at your cheeks with your sleeve. “Alexia that’s biologically impossible.”  

“It does” she says firmly, grinning even as her voice shakes with emotion.  

The grin fades slowly as she stares down at the photo again, her expression softening. “They’re ours.”  

You glance at her. Her eyes are glassy again, lashes damp, and she’s not trying to hide it.  

“I was so scared to go to this appointment,” you admit quietly. “I couldn’t stop thinking about last time. What it felt like to walk out of there empty.”  

Alexia reaches across the centre console, slipping her hand into yours, weaving your fingers together. “I know. I felt it too. Like I was holding my breath the whole time.”  

“But we walked out with this.” You hold up the scan, your thumb gently brushing over the shape of your tiny baby. “We walked out with them.”  

She squeezes your hand. “We walked out as parents.”  

The word hits you like a soft thunderclap.  

Parents.  

You sit in silence for a moment, just feeling it.  

The responsibility. The beauty. The miracle of it all.  

You gently turn to her and whisper, “Do you think Burt and Ernie will be jealous?”  

Alexia snorts, blinking through her tears. “They’re going to be obsessed. Burt’s going to be a bodyguard, and Ernie’s going to teach them how to sneak food off plates.”  

You laugh, wiping at your eyes. “We’re going to have a baby. In a few months, we’re going to be waking up to cries, and diapers, and chaos… and it’s going to be the best thing we’ve ever done.”  

Alexia leans over, her forehead resting gently against yours, her other hand still clutching the envelope of scan photos to her chest.  

“I’ve never been so scared in my life,” she admits, her voice barely a breath. “But I’ve also never loved anyone the way I love you. Or wanted anything more than this with you.”  

You smile, brushing your nose against hers. “We’re doing this together. Every second of it.”  

She kisses you softly—slow and full of promise—then pulls back just enough to whisper:  

“Let’s go home, mamá.”  

And just like that, everything feels right.

—

Eli’s home always felt warm.

It was the kind of place where love was stitched into the very walls, where the smell of home-cooked meals clung to the furniture, where laughter echoed through the hallways even on the quietest nights.

And tonight, it was no different.

Alba was already nursing a glass of wine, chatting animatedly about something ridiculous that happened in her life, while Eli busied herself serving up far too much food for just the four of you.

But you were struggling. The smells of everything—the garlic, the roasted meat, even the faint scent of wine—had been assaulting your senses since you walked in the door.

Alexia had noticed immediately. And so had Eli. Her sharp eyes flicked toward you as she placed a bowl of food in front of you, her brow furrowing slightly when she saw how pale you looked. “Mi amor,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “Are you still sick?.”

You forced a smile, pushing your food around with your fork. “I’m fine.”

Eli narrowed her eyes slightly, unconvinced. “You haven’t touched your food.”

“I’m just not too hungry,” you tried again.

That made everyone go silent.

Alba blinked dramatically, looking between you and Alexia. “Since when are you not hungry?”

Alexia let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. “Mami, I think we have something to tell you.”

Eli froze.

Her eyes widened slightly, her hands stilling over the napkin she had been adjusting. “Tell me what?”

You exhaled, setting down your fork. Your hands trembled slightly as you stood up from your chair, suddenly feeling so many emotions at once. Then, slowly, you reached for the hem of your hoodie and lifted it—just enough to reveal the small but undeniable bump that had begun to form.

Eli gasped.

Alba nearly choked on her wine.

“I get morning sickness in the mornings and the evenings,” you murmured, a soft but certain smile on your lips. “because, I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, no one moved.

Eli’s hand came up to her mouth, eyes wide, her entire body still as she stared at your stomach.

Alba’s chair scraped against the floor as she pushed back from the table, standing so suddenly she nearly knocked over her glass. “Wait, WHAT?!”

You laughed softly, pulling your hoodie back down as Alexia reached for your hand, her warmth grounding you.

“You—” Eli blinked rapidly, looking at you, then at Alexia, then back at you. “You’re pregnant?”

You nodded, feeling tears sting your eyes at the sheer emotion in her voice.

Eli let out a soft sob and immediately wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into a warm, desperate embrace. “Mi niña…” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

You melted into her, feeling the weight of the moment settle deep in your chest.

Alba, on the other hand, was still staring at you both like you had just told her the world was ending.

“You—” She pointed wildly between the two of you. “You’re pregnant?!”

Alexia smirked. “Yes, Alba.”

Alba blinked. “Like, for real?”

You let out a breathy laugh, wiping at your eyes. “For real.”

Her eyes widened further. “But you—” She frowned slightly. “I didn’t even know you were trying yet?”

You swallowed hard, glancing at Alexia before turning back to them. “We kept it private. We, um—” You hesitated before inhaling deeply. “We’ve actually been trying for a while.”

Eli pulled back slightly, concern flickering in her gaze. “Cuánto tiempo?”

You squeezed Alexia’s hand, finding strength in her touch. “This is our fourth attempt.”

Eli’s breath caught. “Four?”

You nodded, biting your lip. “The first two times didn’t work. The third time… we got a positive, but we lost the baby.”

Alba let out a soft oh under her breath, her expression instantly shifting to something more serious. Eli’s hands gripped yours tightly, her eyes shining with pain and understanding. “Mi amor,” she whispered.

You offered her a small, grateful smile. “But now, this time… we feel so lucky.”

Eli wiped at her eyes, sniffling before letting out a watery laugh. “I can’t believe this.”

The moment wraps around all of you like a warm blanket—arms tangled, breath hitching, emotions hanging heavy in the air.  

Eli’s still clutching you tightly, murmuring soft blessings against your hair, one hand now splayed protectively over your bump like she already considers herself a guardian of the little life growing inside you.  

Alexia leans into your side, her eyes locked on yours like she’s still trying to absorb the reality of what’s happening—her wife, her mother, her sister, and your baby all woven together in a moment you never knew your heart needed so badly.  

And then, you notice it.  

Alba.  

She hasn’t said anything since her initial outburst. She’s stepped back from the hug, standing slightly off to the side now, hands wrapped around herself. Her face is unreadable for a moment, her jaw tight, her eyes glassy.  

Alexia turns her head, still holding you close. “Alba?” she says gently. “You okay? We’ve just told the most incredible thing is happening to us and you look like you couldn’t care any less”  

Alba blinks, like she’s only just noticed the attention shifting to her. Her lips press together, her throat bobbing once. “Yeah,” she says quickly, but her voice cracks halfway through.   She tries to brush it off with a shaky laugh. “I’m—God, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”  

And then it happens.  

Her voice breaks completely, and she brings a hand to her face, trying to stop it, but the tears are already slipping down her cheeks.  

You and Alexia freeze.  

“Alba…” Alexia says softly, stepping toward her. “Hey, hey, what is it?”  

Alba tries to speak but chokes on the first word. She lets out a sob, frustrated and emotional and completely unguarded—so unlike her usual chaotic, firecracker self.  

“I’m just—” She laughs and cries at the same time, wiping at her face. “I’m so happy. I’m so happy you’re pregnant and I—” She stops, breath catching. “I didn’t know how much I wanted this for you both until you said it out loud.”  

Alexia pulls her into a hug immediately, arms wrapping around her younger sister with such force that you feel it in your chest.  

Alba clings to her, burying her face into Alexia’s shoulder like she did when they were kids, when things were overwhelming, when she needed someone to hold her while she felt.

Eli stands beside you, eyes still damp, her hand sliding back into yours with a squeeze.  

You watch Alexia whisper something into Alba’s ear, soothing, loving, and Alba nods through her tears, pressing her forehead to her sister’s chest.  

“I thought she was sick,” Alba murmurs. “I thought something was awfully wrong, I’d convinced myself we-you’d loose her and i didn’t know how we’d handle that, you were so sick that night, you looked so sick and it looked like you’d lost weight, it scared me”  

Alexia huffs a small, tearful laugh. “You idiot”

You walk over quietly and slide your hand into Alba’s. She looks at you, still tear-streaked, and lets out a breathy, disbelieving laugh. “I’m fine, i speak to my doctor all the time” you showed your bump again, “It’s just morning sickness, i promise, i’m doing everything the doctor tells me to, to make sure the baby and I are healthy through this little bit”

“I’m going to be a Tía.”  

“You’re going to be the most chaotic Tía ever,” you say with a grin.  

“I’m going to buy them the loudest toys known to man.”  

“Absolutely not,” Alexia says immediately.  

All three of you laugh through the tears. And standing there, wrapped up in love, in emotion, in family—you know it more than ever.  

This baby is already surrounded by a world so full of love, they’ll never go a day without feeling it.

You gently tug your hand free from Alba’s and slip it into your coat pocket where, carefully folded and protected like a sacred treasure, the scan photo has been tucked away since the clinic visit.  

Your fingers tremble a little as you unfold the paper, the soft crinkle drawing Eli’s and Alba’s attention immediately.  

“I have…” you begin, voice still thick with emotion, “…something I want to show you.”  

Alexia, still standing with one arm around her sister’s shoulder, glances over at you with that soft, knowing look—the one that says I know how much this means.  

You hold the photo out toward them, your thumb brushing over the image like you can’t quite believe it’s real, even now.  

“From our last scan,” you say gently. “We saw everything. Their head, their hands… we even heard the heartbeat again.”  

Eli gasps softly and moves in close, her hand coming to rest over her heart the second her eyes land on the image. Her lips part, and her breath catches. “Ay, míralo…”  

Alba steps beside her, peeking over her mother’s shoulder. At first she’s quiet, her eyes scanning the blurry but unmistakable shape of the baby—so small, curled like a comma, but there.  

“Is that their…?” she starts, pointing clumsily to the head.  

Alexia steps in, smirking. “Yes. That’s the head. Not a potato, like you’re probably thinking.”  

Alba laughs through a sniffle, nudging her playfully. “I wasn’t going to say potato!” A beat. “...But it does kind of look like one.”  

Eli swats her gently, but she’s still crying, her thumb now tracing the edge of the photo like it’s the most precious thing she’s ever held.  

“They’re perfect,” she whispers. “Already perfect.”  

You step closer to Alexia, letting her wrap an arm around your waist, her hand automatically resting against your bump.  

“I’ve stared at this photo a hundred times already,” you admit, resting your head on her shoulder. “And every time I do, it hits me all over again—they’re real. They’re ours.”  

Alba reaches for the photo, asking softly, “Can I hold it?”  

You nod, and she takes it gently, like she’s afraid she’ll break it. She stares at it for a long moment, then looks up at you and Alexia, her expression open and vulnerable in a way you rarely see.  

“I’m going to love them so much,” she says quietly. “You don’t even know.”  

Alexia smiles, her own eyes misty again. “We do know. We’ve discussed it at length”  

The four of you stand there in Eli’s kitchen—food forgotten, hearts wide open, surrounded by the smell of roasted garlic and the sound of quiet sniffles.  

And in that moment, with your scan photo passing from hand to hand, something settles in the room.  

This baby is already home.  Already loved. Already theirs, too. You step back from the circle of warmth in Eli’s kitchen, cheeks still flushed from all the tears and laughter, your heart full but pounding with a new kind of anticipation. You’d been waiting for the right moment to do this. And now, watching Alba cradling the scan photo like it’s made of stardust and Eli still dabbing at her cheeks with a napkin, you know maybe you were ready to reach out to your own family. 

Alexia reaches for your hand, pulling you gently into her side, her voice soft and low against your ear. “I love you.”  

You smile into her shoulder, tears prickling your eyes again. Eli steps forward, pulling you into a hug again, whispering, “This baby is already so lucky. So loved.”  

And in that moment, wrapped in her arms, Alexia’s hand on your back, Alba quietly swearing she’s going to be the “cool emotional aunt,” you feel it again—  

That this little life growing inside you has already built a family bigger than blood.  

They’ve built a home.

Alba is still standing there in the kitchen, one hand clutched to her chest and the other holding the framed scan at arm’s length like she’s trying to mentally zoom in. Her eyes are narrowed, tongue poking out slightly as she inspects the grainy image with ridiculous focus.  

Then, she says it.  

Totally serious.  

“I’m telling you… they have your nose.”  

You blink. “What?”  

Alexia perks up instantly, standing straighter beside you like a lightbulb just went off. “Thank you!” she exclaims, pointing at her sister. “I said the same thing when we left the clinic!”  

You gape at them both. “How—how can you possibly tell that from a grainy black and white scan that looks like it was taken with a potato?”  

Alba smirks, triumphant. “You can totally tell. Look at this little bump on the bridge! That’s you.”  

Alexia crosses her arms with a smug grin. “Exacte. I said they had your nose, and you told me I was being ridiculous.”  

You throw your hands up, exasperated but laughing. “Because it is ridiculous! You do remember it was your egg, right? Your DNA? I’m just the deluxe human incubator in this equation.”  

Alba gasps. “Did you just call yourself a deluxe human incubator?”  

Alexia bites her lip, trying not to laugh. “That’s going on a T-shirt.”  

You groan dramatically, dropping into the chair. “You two are unbelievable. The baby is genetically yours, Alexia. Your egg.”  

Alexia shrugs, still staring at the scan like she’s searching for clues. “Maybe. But they’re growing inside you. And if they’re already getting your attitude—”  

“—they’re definitely getting your nose,” Alba finishes.  

You cover your face with your hands. “I regret telling you anything.”  

But you don’t, not really. Because when you peek through your fingers, they’re both grinning at the scan like it’s a masterpiece, like this blurry photo has already revealed an entire person.  

Your person.  

Alexia catches your gaze, her teasing fading just enough for something softer to settle into her expression. She kneels beside your chair and places a hand on your belly, gentle and sure.  

“Regardless of whose nose they have,” she murmurs, “they’re ours. Every little bit.”  

You smile through the warmth rising in your chest, brushing your fingers through her hair.  

“Yeah,” you whisper. “They really are.”  

And just like that, even with all the bickering and chaos, the room is full of peace again. A quiet knowing. A family already falling in love with someone they’ve never met.

—

Something shifted as the second trimester arrived.

It wasn’t dramatic—there wasn’t a switch flipped overnight—but it was definitely noticeable. Your nausea, while not entirely gone, began to give you some grace. You could finally keep food down, you started sleeping better, and the fatigue that had made your limbs feel like lead slowly began to fade. You started to feel more like yourself.

Except… not quite.

Because this version of you? This new, radiant, glowing, tingling version of you? She was insatiable.

At first, you thought it was just a fluke—a flurry of hormones shifting as your body adjusted, a couple of blush-inducing dreams that left you tangled in sheets and aching in a way you hadn’t felt for weeks. But then it kept happening.

A lingering glance from Alexia while she dried her hair. The way her hand would rest lazily on your thigh as you lay on the sofa. The sight of her in her training gear, all strength and casual swagger, or standing at the kitchen counter in a hoodie and nothing else, humming softly to herself.

It did things to you.

You tried to play it cool at first. A few stolen kisses while she made breakfast. Your hands wandering a little lower than usual as you cuddled in bed. Her hand cradling your bump during a sleepy embrace would have you biting your lip, trying not to press into her palm.

But Alexia, of course, noticed.

She always did.

And she definitely wasn’t complaining. One night, lying on the couch with your head in her lap while she mindlessly scrolled through Netflix options, your fingers were tracing slow, lazy circles on her knee. You weren’t really paying attention to the screen. You were watching her. The curve of her jaw, the way her lips curled in thought, the subtle flex of her thigh under your head. You shifted slightly, pressing a little closer.

Her eyes flicked down. “You okay?”

You nodded, eyes hooded. “Yeah. Just…”

She tilted her head, smirking. “Just what?”

You hesitated, then whispered, “I really want you right now.”

She blinked, caught off guard—but only for a second. That knowing smirk deepened as she leaned down and brushed a slow kiss against your lips. “You’re glowing,” she murmured, her hand smoothing down over your bump. “And kind of dangerous right now.”

You grinned against her mouth. “Dangerous?”

“You’ve been giving me that look for a week. I’ve been trying to behave.”

You shifted again, this time straddling her lap slowly, wrapping your arms around her neck. “Don’t.”

Alexia’s hands slid to your hips instinctively, her breath catching. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to hers. “You won’t. I feel good, Lex. Really good. Better than I have in months.”

She kissed you then—deep and slow, the kind of kiss that said she’d been waiting for you to feel like this again, the kind of kiss that didn’t just ignite your skin but centred you. That night was soft and careful and full of laughter and breathy sighs, full of the quietest kind of fire. Alexia’s hands cradling your body like she was holding something precious. Her lips mapping your skin slowly, reverently, like she’d missed every inch of you and wasn’t going to waste a second more.

She didn’t rush you. She didn’t push. She followed your pace, your need, your rhythm. And God, you needed her. Not just the closeness, not just the aching low in your belly. You needed her—the warmth of her breath on your shoulder, the press of her lips to your bump as if thanking it for giving you back to her like this.

After, she held you with one arm wrapped around your waist, the other hand resting on your belly, her thumb brushing soft strokes over the curve of it.

“I missed us,” she murmured into your hair.

You nodded, still catching your breath. “Me too.”

And she smiled against your skin, whispering, “Let’s make up for lost time.” You laughed—soft and satisfied—already knowing that with her, you had all the time in the world.

—

You were standing in front of the mirror, tugging gently at the hem of the flowy black top you’d chosen for the night. It draped comfortably over your bump—still not obvious to the untrained eye, but enough that you’d started reaching for looser fits out of instinct.

Behind you, Alexia was sitting on the edge of the bed, slipping on her trainers, one eyebrow arched in focused determination.

You turned slightly, smoothing your shirt again. “Hey, Lex?”  

She grunted in response, still battling her shoes.

“I think… I want to tell Carla tonight.”  

She paused, looking up like you’d just said you were moving to the moon. “Tell Carla what?”  

You gave her a look. “About the baby.”  

Alexia blinked. “Wait—you haven’t told her yet?”  

You shrugged a little, avoiding her eyes in the mirror. “No, I mean… I kind of assumed you had?”  

She stood slowly, eyes narrowing. “No, I figured you would. She’s your best friend.”  

“I know, but I thought maybe with all the training, and the away games, and how close you two have gotten, it would’ve just… slipped out.”  

Alexia stepped behind you now, her hands resting lightly on your shoulders. “Mi amor, Carla thinks your ‘stomach bug’ is the longest-running flu case in Europe.”  

You winced. “Okay, yeah. Fair point.”  

She leaned down, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I just assumed you told her ages ago. She’s going to lose her mind.”  

You turned to face her fully, nervous energy fluttering in your chest. “Do you think she’ll be upset we waited this long?”  

Alexia shook her head immediately. “Not for a second. She’ll probably cry, and then call you dramatic, and then demand she gets to be godmother without even asking.”  

You laughed, because it was so Carla.  

“She just means so much to me,” you said softly. “I think part of me wanted to tell her when it felt safe. When it felt real. And now that it does… I want her to know.”  

Alexia cupped your face, her thumbs brushing your cheeks gently. “Then tell her. Tonight. I’ll make sure everyone’s distracted so you two can have your moment.”  

You smiled up at her, heart swelling. “You’re good at this whole supportive wife thing, you know.” 

She smirked, pressing a kiss to your lips. “I’m practicing. I hear pregnant women can get needy.”  

You pulled back with a playful glare. “Excuse me?”  

“Emotionally needy. Physically clingy. Obsessed with their gorgeous footballer wives.”  

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your bag and swatting her with it lightly. “You wish.”  

She caught your hand and kissed your knuckles, then rested it gently against the curve of your stomach.  

“Carla’s going to be so happy,” she said softly. “She loves you. And she’s going to love them too.”  

You nodded, heart full, nerves buzzing just a little.  

It was time.  

And tonight, you were finally going to share your biggest joy with one of the people who’d loved you through everything.

The restaurant was loud in that comforting way—ambient, warm, filled with clinking glasses and voices layered over upbeat music. The team had already taken over a long table at the back, some players halfway through their first round of drinks, laughter echoing as Mapi recounted something dramatic with hand gestures big enough to nearly take out a waiter.

You and Alexia walked in hand-in-hand, her thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles, grounding you the way she always did when you were buzzing with nerves. She leaned in as you neared the table, voice low and teasing against your ear.

“You’re going to cry when you tell her, aren’t you?”

You scoffed. “Please. I’m perfectly composed.”

Alexia smirked. “You got misty-eyed at a baby socks display last week.”

“That was different. They were tiny and knitted.”

She laughed, gently squeezing your hand one last time before breaking away to greet her teammates. “I’ll buy you ten pairs if it helps you breathe right now.”

You scanned the table, and there she was—Carla, sitting on the end, already waving when she spotted you, her grin wide and chaotic as always. She made a space instantly, scooting over with a dramatic “Finally! Took you long enough!” and motioning for you to sit beside her.

You sat, nerves rolling like thunder in your chest.

“Hey, stranger,” she said, bumping your shoulder. “You look…” Her eyes narrowed, studying you for half a second too long. “…a little tired. Still fighting that virus?”

You smiled carefully. “Sort of.”

Carla turned her body toward you slightly, sipping from her drink. “You okay though? You’ve been kind of… I don’t know. Not off, just… low profile.”

Now or never.

You wet your lips and set your bag down beside your chair, shifting slightly so your knee touched hers. “Actually… there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. For a while. I just—wasn’t ready before.”

Her brows lifted immediately, and the playful energy dimmed into something more focused. “Okay. What’s going on?”

You swallowed thickly, glancing down at your lap for a second before looking back at her. “I’m pregnant.”

Carla stared.

You waited.

For once in her life, she said nothing.

“I know,” you said gently, watching the shock ripple across her features. “It’s been a long road, and we weren’t sure it was going to happen, but… we’re in the second trimester now. It’s really happening.”

Her hand came to her mouth, eyes already glassy. “Wait. Wait—shut up.”

You laughed softly. “Carla—”

“You’re pregnant?!” she whispered fiercely, smacking your arm before launching herself across the small space to throw her arms around you. “You’re—oh my God, you’re—why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Tears welled in your eyes as you held onto her. “I wanted to. We just… had a few scares. I needed to feel like it was real before I could share it.”

Carla nodded against your shoulder, still gripping you like she might not let go. “God, I’m so happy. I’m so—like, I don’t even know what to say. You’re going to be the best mama.” When she finally pulled back, she sniffled and immediately tried to laugh it off. “Ugh, I hate you for making me cry in public.”  

You wiped at your own eyes. “It had to be you tonight. I couldn’t keep it from you anymore.”

“Wait—does everyone else know?”

You shook your head. “Just family. You’re the first person from the team.”  

Her eyes went huge. “I’m honoured. I’m actually—Oh my God, does this mean I get to be the fun godmother?”  

You laughed. “You kind of already are.”  

She wiped under her eyes again, then glanced over your shoulder, and her expression shifted to mock-serious. “Tell Alexia if she doesn’t give me godmother rights, I’m stealing the baby.”  

Alexia, returning to the table with two glasses of water, slid into the seat next to you and arched an eyebrow. “Stealing our baby?” she asked dryly, handing you one glass.  

Carla grinned through her drying tears. “You heard me.”  

Alexia glanced at you, then at Carla, then smiled softly. “You can be the godmother. But only if you agree to babysit when we haven’t slept for three nights in a row.”  

Carla lifted her glass dramatically. “Done. I’ll even bring snacks.”  

The three of you clinked glasses quietly while chaos bubbled around the rest of the table. But in that little corner, with laughter and tears and secrets finally spoken, everything felt a little more real. A little more whole.  

The night hums on around you—dishes clinking, conversations overlapping, laughter rising every so often from one end of the table or the other. Carla’s still next to you, now proudly pointing out baby items on her phone she thinks are essential, including, for some reason, a bassinet shaped like a race car.

You’re in the middle of politely telling her the baby doesn’t need its own pit crew when someone stops beside the table.

“Ingrid!” you say brightly, your smile wide and honest.

She returns it, but it’s soft—slightly tight around the edges. Her eyes drift over your face, studying you in that careful way people do when they’ve been worried.

“Hey,” she says quietly, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Can I… just check in for a second?”

You nod immediately, and Carla wordlessly scoots over to give her space.

Ingrid crouches slightly to be more level with you, her eyes kind. “I didn’t want to crowd you, but I’ve been meaning to ask if you’re okay. Alexia said you’ve been unwell for a while… and when you didn’t really talk to Carla the other day, I—” she hesitates, her brow furrowing, “—I just got a bit worried.”

Your heart tugs, the genuine concern in her voice making your chest ache in a surprisingly tender way.

You glance sideways, toward Alexia, who’s been watching the exchange quietly from the other side of you. Her eyes flick to yours, and you see it there—the guilt, the unspoken truth she’s been holding onto.

She hadn’t told them because it wasn’t just her story to tell. But maybe it was time. Maybe it was time to let everyone in.

You rest your hand over Alexia’s on your knee, giving it a light squeeze.

“Lex?” you say softly. She meets your gaze, and you offer her a small, reassuring nod. “I think you should tell them now. While we’re all here.”

Her brows lift slightly. “You’re sure?”

You nod again, heart pounding in your chest, but the relief already washing over you like sunlight breaking through a long winter cloud. “I’m ready,” you whisper. “We’re ready.”

Alexia leans over and presses a soft kiss to your cheek, then turns, reaching gently for Ingrid’s hand to pull her upright.

Ingrid looks confused for a moment, eyes darting between you both, before Alexia clears her throat—just loud enough to catch the attention of those closest.

It doesn’t take long. One person notices, then another, and within seconds, the whole table begins to quiet. Heads turn. Conversations pause.

Alexia stands slowly, still holding your hand. Her voice is calm, but her eyes are lit with something electric, something trembling but proud.

“I know a few of you have been wondering why this one here,” she says, nudging you gently, “has been a little MIA lately.”

The girls around the table start murmuring—some smiling already, some just curious.

“She’s been dealing with a lot,” Alexia continues, looking down at you with soft adoration, “but not because of a bug. Or stress. Or anything of the other lies I’ve told you.”

You stand now too, the nerves bubbling under your skin like champagne, but Alexia steadies you with her hand in yours.

“She’s pregnant,” Alexia says simply.

A stunned beat.

Then—

“WHAT?!” Mapi shrieks.

“No jodas—”

“OH MY GOD—”

Chaos erupts.

Voices raise, chairs scrape as half the table jumps up in excitement. Mapi launches herself over the table like she’s diving for a trophy, nearly knocking over a candle in the process. Aitana’s mouth is hanging open in disbelief. Ingrid’s hands are covering her heart, her face softening with every second.

Carla is grinning like the cat that got the cream, proudly taking credit like she was the one who made the announcement.

And in the middle of it all, Alexia has her arm around you, her head bent to yours as you both soak in the sound of pure, unfiltered joy.

When Ingrid finally reaches you again, she doesn’t say anything right away. She just wraps you in the warmest, most genuine hug.

“I’m so happy for you,” she says into your shoulder. “You’re going to be incredible.”

You close your eyes, heart full. For the first time, you feel it completely. Now they all know. And they already love your baby like they’ve been waiting for them too.

The noise eventually settles—if only slightly.

There’s still laughter and excited voices bouncing around the room, a few players wiping away surprised tears (Aitana’s pretending not to, but her red nose gives her away), and the waitstaff bringing over more drinks and desserts with cautious smiles, clearly clocking that something big just happened.

Alexia hasn’t let go of your hand since the announcement, and you don’t want her to.

Carla’s still beaming, whispering something about how she’s going to ‘crash every family photo’ and ‘bring a suitcase to the hospital,’ while Ingrid quietly rests a hand on your back like she’s still anchoring you to the moment.

And then—of course—Mapi stands on her chair.

She clears her throat dramatically, raising a glass of something sparkly that definitely wasn’t what she originally ordered. “Everyone. Please. Shut up and give me the floor. For once in your lives.”

A few groans, some cheers, and at least one “don’t fall, Mapi” echo from across the table, but the room does fall quiet—albeit with amused, expectant grins.

She turns, facing you and Alexia directly now, her gaze more focused than usual, her smirk softening into something almost reverent.

“I make a lot of noise,” she begins, eliciting a collective “¡sí!” from the table. She ignores it with a wave. “But tonight I want to make noise for them.”

She nods at you. Then at Alexia.  

“You two have been through a lot. We all know that. And you’ve built something together that’s… unbreakable. Something strong. Something soft. Something that all of us admire more than we probably say.”

Alexia shifts beside you, clearly trying not to get misty-eyed already. You squeeze her hand tighter.  

“And now,” Mapi continues, lifting her glass higher, “you’re bringing someone new into that love. A tiny person who’s going to be ridiculously lucky from the very first breath they take. Lucky to have two mamis who already love them more than anything. Lucky to grow up with warmth and safety and laughter—and the best damn football education in the world.”  

Laughter breaks across the table, but it’s gentle, affectionate.  

Mapi’s voice softens, but her words ring clear.  

“To the little one—who doesn’t even know yet how loved they already are. Who’s going to be raised in a world full of strength, softness, and chaos. We can’t wait to meet you. We’ve got your back already.” She pauses, then adds with a wink, “And if you come out with great hair and questionable jokes, we’ll know exactly who to blame.”  

You and Alexia both burst out laughing as everyone lifts their glasses, the entire table echoing in chorus:  

“To the baby!”

The clinking of glasses surrounds you, a symphony of celebration.  

And as you press your forehead to Alexia’s, both of you laughing, a little teary, you whisper, “They’re going to have so many people in their corner.”  

Alexia nods, eyes shining. “The best team we could ever ask for.”  

And in that moment, with love wrapped around you in every direction, you feel it in your bones—this baby isn’t just coming into a family.  

They’re coming into a legacy.

YES!!! Love it 🩵

now a culer | something blue

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader, olga rios x teen!reader

summary: school is still… rough, so alexia finds a solution

warnings: school fight

notes: i am genuinely loving writing for azulita

Don’t get it wrong. you didn’t hate Barcelona. It was a beautiful city, full of life, history, and football. The architecture was stunning, the beaches were nice, and the food, objectively, was good. But nothing— nothing could ever compare to LA.

LA had everything for you. Your friends, your school, your culture. You knew every street, every corner store, every mural that decorated the sides of buildings. The people in your neighborhood weren’t just strangers, you knew them, and they knew you. You had history with them. Mr. García, who owned the corner store, always had something for you when you stopped by, chips, a drink, a free snack, as long as you swept up the front of his store. Mrs. Alvarez, the seamstress down the block, had been patching up your old clothes for years because you couldn’t afford new ones. The local grocery store let you stock the juice shelves in exchange for a small bag of groceries. The paletero man that always made sure your favorite paleta was in stock People took care of each other in your LA. It was unspoken, but it was understood.

Barcelona had its own community, its own culture, its own way of life. But it wasn’t yours. It didn’t have your people. It didn’t have the same music blasting from car windows, the smell of carne asada grilling on the sidewalk, or the summer block parties that lasted until sunrise where you danced bachata til your feet hurt. It didn’t have the sound of Spanish and English blending together in a way that felt like home. It wasn’t the streets you grew up on. It wasn’t the familiar faces who had watched you grow. It wasn’t the city that had shaped you. It wasn’t home.

And the culture shock? It hit hard.

The Spanish spoken in Barcelona wasn’t even the same as what you grew up with. You could understand it, sure, but sometimes, the slang threw you off completely. The food was different, too—no more corner taco stands or elote vendors pushing carts down the street. No more bodegas where you could grab a pack of Hot Cheetos and a can of Arizona for a dollar fifty. And the people? They didn’t move like LA people did. Back home, you walked with a purpose, always aware of your surroundings. Here, people strolled leisurely down the sidewalk like they had nowhere to be, like they had never had to be in a rush a day in their lives.

But the biggest difference? The way you carried yourself. In LA, you had to be on guard. Always. You had to be sharp, ready, because life had never given you the luxury of relaxing. You were always prepared for something to go wrong, because it always did. Here, though, everything was so… safe. People left their doors unlocked. Kids walked home alone at night. You saw people with their phones out, not even looking over their shoulders. It made you uneasy. You didn’t know how to exist in a place where you weren’t constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Olga just could not get it. She didn’t get why you always seemed tense, why you jumped at sudden noises, why you always had to sit facing the door whenever you went out to eat. She didn’t get why you never let yourself fully relax, why you kept waiting for something to go wrong. She didn’t understand because she had never had to live like that.

And then there was the biggest adjustment of all: actually living with Olga.

For years, she had been a figure in your life. A presence. Someone who popped in and out, who you called and texted, who sent you money when you needed it. But you had never lived together. You had never had to share space. And now, suddenly, she was supposed to be responsible for you.

And it was a disaster.

You weren’t used to having anyone tell you what to do. You had been living on your own for months, doing whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted. So, naturally, you didn’t see a problem with leaving your stuff wherever you felt like it.

Your shoes? Kicked off in the middle of the living room. Your jacket? Draped over the back of a chair. Your gym bag? Somewhere. (You’d find it eventually.) Olga, however, was losing her mind.

“Do you not see the mess you’re making?” she snapped one afternoon, hands on her hips as she glared at the chaos you had left in the living room.

You barely spared her a glance from where you were sprawled on the couch. “I’ll clean it up later.”

“Later when? Next week?”

You shrugged.

And the music. You had always blasted your music at ungodly hours, back when there was no one around to complain. So, why would you stop now? Except now, you had Olga banging on your door at two in the morning, looking absolutely murderous.

“Are you serious right now?” she hissed, shoving open the door. “Turn that down!”

“It’s not that loud.”

“IT IS!”

And then, of course, there was the hoodie situation.

Olga owned nice hoodies. You had noticed this immediately. You had also decided, just as quickly, that they were now yours. You never asked— you just took them. Which made Olga’s blood boil.

“Where is my hoodie?” she demanded one day, hands on her hips.

You pulled the sleeves of said hoodie over your hands, looking at her blankly. “What hoodie?”

“That hoodie! The one you’re wearing!”

“Oh. This? Thought it was mine.”

“It’s not!”

Alexia just watched it all unfold with an amused smile. She had no intention of stepping in. In fact, it would only make it worse. The best thing for her to do was to let the two of you argue then drop you off at school.

You flex and extend your fingers as you stare down at your raw knuckles, the skin cracked, bruised, and stinging with every slight movement. Your hands tremble slightly, and not just from the pain. You sit on a bench outside the principal’s office, your legs bouncing restlessly, teeth clenched, chest tight. You’re trying to breathe, trying to calm down, but the fire inside you is still burning too hot. Why do you keep losing it like this?

You wrack your brain for answers, frustrated and ashamed. You didn’t come here to be the angry kid. You didn’t come to Spain to fight. But everything felt wrong. Your body was tense from the moment you stepped off the plane a few weeks ago. Everything’s been off.

You hate how different the Spanish sounds. Everyone speaks fast, sharp, clipped, nothing like the Spanish you grew up with back home. Your classmates either don’t understand you or mock your accent. Teachers correct you like you’re stupid. You’re constantly trying to translate everything in your head, to blend in, but all it does is make you feel more alone. You squeeze your hands into fists again. The pain grounds you, just for a second.

The door creaks open, and your head jerks up. Olga steps out of the office, her jaw clenched, eyes blazing. Alexia follows behind, calm as ever, but her gaze flicks to you quickly, assessing. She says nothing.

Olga doesn’t waste time. “In the car,” she snaps, voice low and furious. “Now.”

You don’t argue. You stand silently, walking past them both with your head down. It’s déjà vu, the second time in a month. You can feel her eyes on the back of your head, and you’re already bracing for it.

And sure enough, as soon as the car doors close, Olga turns on you.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she explodes. “Do you even care about staying here? Do you want to get kicked out of every school in the city?”

You stare out the window, jaw tight, refusing to say anything.

“I’m trying, okay?” she continues. “I’m trying to make this work. I’m trying to give you a good life here. But you’re making it impossible!”

“He was talking about you,” you mutter suddenly.

“What?”

You finally turn, meeting her eyes. “The guy I hit. He was saying disgusting stuff about you. I told him to stop. He didn’t. So I made him.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Nobody disrespects my sister,” you say simply.

Olga exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose as her anger starts to crumble.

“I… okay,” she says softly. “Okay. But Azul, this can’t keep happening.”

You don’t respond. The car ride home is quiet, tense.

Once you pull into the driveway, Olga tries again. “Can we talk more about—”

“I’m miserable here,” you cut in, still staring ahead. “I can’t keep up with the Spanish, people make fun of how I talk, I have no friends, and there’s no girls’ football team for me to play with. I feel stupid all the time. I feel… wrong.”

It hangs heavy between you. You blink back the sting in your eyes, suddenly too tired to fight.

Alexia, who’s been watching from the driver seat, finally speaks up. “I’m taking her to the pitch.”

Olga hesitates but nods. “Go. Just— be careful.”

The second Alexia nods toward the passenger seat, you perk up.

The Barcelona training grounds are quiet, bathed in the soft amber glow of the setting sun. You’re in your element the second you step onto the pitch, your body relaxing as you lace up your cleats. You and Alexia stretch in silence before falling into a one-on-one. The rhythm is familiar, the tension in your chest starts to melt away.

She’s good, obviously, but you manage to dust her with a ridiculous feint and spin move that has her stumbling, arms flailing as you laugh and tuck the ball into the net.

“Not bad,” she says, grinning as she shakes her head.

“You’re getting old,” you tease, jogging backward toward the penalty spot.

“Oh, please.”

Now she’s in goal, sleeves rolled up, expression focused as you line up your shots. One by one, you fire them in. She saves a few, but not all. The pop of the ball hitting the back of the net fills the air.

As you take a breather between kicks, you speak again. “I feel out of place at school. Like I don’t belong. It’s not just the language… it’s everything. I don’t talk like them. I don’t think like them. And there’s no football team. No girls to play with. I feel like I’m wasting my time.”

Alexia watches you carefully from the goal, nodding. “That’s not fair. School’s supposed to be a place that supports you.”

“It’s not,” you mutter. “I don’t even want to go anymore.”

Alexia stands up, brushing her hands on her thighs. “Don’t worry about that part.”

You blink. “What?”

“Just keep playing. We’ll figure the rest out.”

You take your last penalty kick, driving it hard into the top corner. The sound is clean, crisp, perfect. You grin.

Unbeknownst to you, two figures sit higher in the bleachers: Joan Laporta and Pere Romeu. They’ve been watching in silence, tracking your every move.

“She’s raw,” Pere murmurs. “Rough around the edges. But you can’t teach instinct like that.”

“She plays like she’s been fighting her whole life,” Laporta adds. “Because she has.”

“Alexia says she’s a winger, no?” Pere asks.

“Could be more than that, if someone gives her the right support.”

They keep watching as you and Alexia walk off the pitch together, sweaty and smiling, shoulders bumping. You don’t know it yet, but everything is about to change.

Back in the locker room, you clean up side by side, tying your hair back and trading casual banter. Your body aches, but your mind is calm for the first time in days.

The sound of your alarm blaring through your room was what, unfortunately, ripped you from sleep. You groaned, rolling over and slapping your hand against the snooze button with more force than necessary. Your eyes were crusty, your body stiff, and for a moment, you considered staying in bed and faking a stomachache. But you knew Olga would never fall for it.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you shuffled to the bathroom, splashed cold water on your face, and slowly made your way down the hallway toward the kitchen. Your hoodie was hanging half off your shoulder, socks mismatched, and your curls were a disaster. Typical school morning. You already dreaded the day.

What greeted you in the kitchen, though, made you pause. Alexia was standing by the counter, humming softly to herself as she tossed fruit into a blender. She was dressed, calm, and already looked like she had been awake for hours. There were slices of toast on a plate, eggs still steaming, and fresh juice already poured. You blinked slowly at the surreal domesticity of it all.

“Morning, ’Lexia,” you mumbled, rubbing at your eyes as you crossed the kitchen. “Have you seen my backpack? I swear I left it by the couch.”

Alexia didn’t even turn around at first. You heard the whir of the blender as she held the top down, blending with ease. When it finally stopped, she looked over her shoulder at you and that’s when you saw it. The smirk.

“You don’t need it today, nena,” she said coolly, pouring the smoothie into a cup. “You’re coming with me.”

You squinted at her. “Huh?”

She just handed you the smoothie. “Drink this. Get dressed.”

You stared at her like she had grown two heads. “Wait, what do you mean I don’t need it? I have school.”

“No, you don’t,” she said simply. “Not today.”

“Okay… am I in trouble again?”

She snorted and shook her head. “Just get dressed.”

The cryptic vibes were off the charts, but you went upstairs anyway, tugging on some joggers and a fresh hoodie, brushing your teeth quickly before grabbing your sneakers. When you came back down, Alexia was already at the door, keys in hand, sunglasses on like some undercover spy. The whole thing was sketchy—and a little exciting.

In the car, you peppered her with questions.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

“Why can’t you just tell me?”

“Because it’s a surprise.”

“Is it good or bad?”

“That depends.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically. “You sound like Olga.”

“She learned it from me.”

You pouted, leaning your head against the window as you watched the city blur past. The sun was barely up, streets still quiet. Your nerves were growing by the minute.

When the car finally pulled up to the FC Barcelona training facility, your brows furrowed.

“What are we doing here?” you asked, genuinely confused now. “Am I in trouble for playing here the other day?”

Alexia just gave you a tight-lipped smile and stepped out of the car. “Come on.”

You followed her slowly, legs stiff, anxiety kicking up. It was one thing to kick the ball around with Alexia when the place was empty— it was another thing entirely to walk through the main building in broad daylight. Your eyes darted around as you passed by trainers, staff members, and a couple of players you recognized. No one stopped you, though. Everyone just nodded at Alexia and let her through.

Finally, she led you to a quiet room off one of the main hallways. It looked like an office, kind of. You hesitated at the door, but Alexia gently nudged you forward.

Inside sat a man you recognized from TV—Pere Romeu. He stood when you entered, smiling warmly, gesturing to the seat in front of his desk.

“Buenos días,” he said kindly. “Alexia told me you go by Azulita”

You nodded slowly, heart pounding.

He motioned for you to sit. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

You looked from him to Alexia, then back again. “Um… okay?”

He chuckled. “Relax. You’re not in trouble. Quite the opposite, actually.”

You sat stiffly in the chair, hands fidgeting in your lap. Alexia took the seat beside you, legs crossed casually.

“So,” Pere said, folding his hands. “The other day, Joan Laporta and I were here late, handling some administrative business. On our way out, we noticed someone playing on the pitch. You. With Alexia.”

Your mouth went dry.

“We watched for a while,” he continued. “And what we saw was raw talent. Instinct, drive, creativity, all of it. You play like it’s the one place you feel safe. And when we see a player like that… we pay attention.”

You blinked. “Wait… you were watching?”

He nodded. “Yes. And we’d like to offer you a place here. Not just training— on the senior team.”

Your jaw dropped. “What?”

“We’ll handle all of your schooling through La Masia’s internal academic program. You won’t need to return to your current school unless you want to. You’ll train, you’ll play, and you’ll study here with people who understand what it means to be an athlete. You’ll be surrounded by others like you. And more importantly, you’ll belong.”

You couldn’t speak. Your brain had stopped processing words somewhere around senior team.

“I know it’s a lot,” Pere added. “But we believe in you. And we want to help you grow not just as a player, but as a person. So… what’s your decision?”

He leaned back in his chair, patient, while your heart thundered in your chest. Alexia turned to you with a soft smile.

And all you could do was sit there, wide-eyed, the weight of everything hanging in the air.

OOPSIES | alessia russo x child!reader x leah williamson

-> based on this request!

grumpy masterlist

alessia though she had been careful. she really did.

it wasn’t like she or leah had put a name to whatever was going on between them yet. it was still uncertain, still new and they were still figuring it out.

but when leah had came over for dinner that night, it felt.. easy. too easy and too natural for it to be a one off thing.

you had been your usual self throughout the evening, not thinking anything different about leah being over for dinner. you just chatted away about your day at nursery, showing off your newest drawing - a very abstract depiction of a cat is what you insisted it was, and giggling anytime leah made a funny face at you across the dinner table.

so by the time bedtime rolled around, you’d gotten through your usual routine of stalling - asking for five more minutes, for one more bedtime story, then one more sip of water then claiming you were too comfy to sleep and then finally after what felt like an eternity to alessia she was able to tuck you in and kiss you goodnight.

the house was quiet. or at least it should have been.

you had been lying in your bed, tossing and turning as you held your esme the elephant close to you as you could hear the soft murmur of voices downstairs.

you knew you were supposed to be asleep. but curiosity got the better of you

so as you slid out from beneath your bed, padding quietly out of your room, careful to not make any noise as you avoid the squeaky floor boards.

the landing was dimly lit by the glow from downstairs, and as you reached the top of the stairs. sitting down on the very top step, hugging your knees tightly into your chest.

and from your spot through the gaps in the banister you could see the front door where your mummy and leah were standing.

leah with her coat on, keys jangling in her hand by her side as she was clearly about to leave.

but instead of just saying the usual goodbye, leah hesitated and smiled in a way you couldn’t quite place.

then to your surprise as a small gasp fell quietly from your lips, leah leaned in and kissed your mummy.

it wasn’t a long kiss. just a short, soft press of the lips. but your little brows furrowed deep as you watched, confused.

you didn’t say anything, didn’t even make a sound. you just stayed curled up on the top step, watching as your mummy let out a quiet giggle, nudging leah towards the door

“go,” your mummy murmured, still smiling, “before you convince me to make you stay.”

leah grinned, “i’ll text you when im home.”

with one last glance, she slipped out of the door, the lock clicking softly behind her.

you waited. staying still for a few minutes, just to be sure leah was really fine before you slowly made your way down the stairs.

your mummy, now tidying the living room moving the empty glasses from the coffee table looking up in surprise when she saw you.

“lovie?” her brow furrowed, “what are you doing up, baby? you should be asleep.”

you rubbed at your eyes, playing up your usual tired look, “i-i can’t sleep.”

alessia just sighed, placing a hand on her hip, “you’ve been in bed for ages, lovie. what’s keeping you up?”

you just shrugged tiredly, “dunno, my eyes won’t go to sleep.”

alessia gave you a knowing look before walking closer to you and bending down to scoop you up in her arms. “alright, sleepyhead. let’s get you back to bed ey?”

you rested your head on your mummy’s shoulder, letting yourself be carried back upstairs, all while keeping your little secret tucked away.

you didn’t ask about the kiss. didn’t say anything at all. not to your mummy. not to leah.

instead, three days later, you told beth and lia

—

it was a quiet afternoon at the arsenal training ground.

beth and lia were lounging in the players’ lounge, chatting away over a cup of coffee while you were sat on the floor, entirely focused on the colouring book in front of you - your mummy busy getting some treatment.

you had a rainbow of crayons spread out across the floor, your tiny hands busy as you filled in the picture of the under water world with bright blue scribbles.

the room was calm, peaceful. until out of nowhere, you looked up and announced, “mummy kissed someone”

beth and lia both froze.

lia blinked, her coffee cup halfway to her lips, “you what?”

you, still colouring, repeated matter of facts, “my mummy kissed someone.”

beth, always the one for the gossip, immediately leaned forward, eyes alight with interest, “who?”

“the pretty one with the yellow hair,” you said, still focused on your drawing, as if this wasn’t an absolute bombshell of information.

beth and lia exchanged a glance. “do you mean—” beth started, then cut herself off as realisation dawned on her who you were talking about.

you finally looked up, tilting your head like they were being very slow to understand, “leah.”

lia choked on her drink. beth, stunned into silence for all of two seconds, suddenly grinned. “wait, what?”

you just nodded like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “i wasn’t supposed to see.”

beth turned to lia, barely able to contain her excitement. “did you know about this?”

lia shook her head, still looking mildly bewildered. “no. did you?”

“nope.” beth turned back to you as you were still busy colouring in. “when did this happen?”

you just shrugged. “i was supposed to be sleeping.”

beth bit her lip, clearly trying not to laugh. “and why are you telling us?”

you looked confused. “‘cause you didn’t know.”

beth did laugh then, ruffling your hair as you pouted as she made you go slightly out the lines on your picture. “you definitely are your mother’s daughter.”

you just beamed. beth and lia, meanwhile, had some investigating to do.

—

beth caught alessia at training not long after, practically vibrating with excitement.

“so…” she started, dragging out the word. “are you seeing anyone?”

alessia frowned, tugging off her warm-up jacket, wondering where the sudden randomness of the question had came from. “uh… why?”

beth bit back a grin. “no reason.” lia standing just behind beth, snorted. “that’s a lie.”

beth ignored her. “just curious, less.”

alessia looked between them, her stomach twisting with something suspiciously close to dread. “you don’t—why are you asking?”

lia finally took pity on her. “because your daughter told us she saw you kissing someone.”

alessia’s stomach dropped as she stared at them trying to see if they were just joking - they didn’t look like they were though. “she what?”

beth was grinning now, looking like she was having the time of her life. “yep. tiny just came right up to us and said, ‘mummy kissed someone, but I wasn’t supposed to see.’”

lia nodded, clearly amused as well by the situation. “and when we asked who, she just shrugged and said, ‘the pretty one with the yellow hair.’”

alessia groaned, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. “oh my god.”

beth practically cackled. “so, just imagine our surprise when we realized she meant leah.”

alessia wanted the ground to swallow her, right there in the middle of the training pitch.

“so how long have you two been sneaking around?” lia asked casually, far too entertained by alessia’s clear discomfort of the conversation.

“we haven’t—we’re not—we’re just—” alessia stumbled over her words, her face burning bright red.

beth cut in gleefully, “oh my god, you are sneaking around.”

“i hate both of you,” alessia muttered, dragging her hands down her face as she groaned.

beth slung an arm around her, barely holding in her laughter. “listen, I think it’s great. you and lee. you just might want to be a bit more careful.”

lia nodded, biting back a smirk. “you know. before you traumatize your child.”

beth snickered. “or before she spills the beans to someone else. beady little eyes, less. they see everything!”

alessia just groaned again, shoving beth off her as the other woman cackled. and, just as if things couldn’t get worse, leah walked up.

beth and lia smirked at each other, the same knowing look on their faces. “oh,” beth murmured, low enough for only alessia to hear, “this is gonna be fun.”

alessia barely had time to compose herself before leah joined them, wiping a bit of sweat off her forehead from the warm-up drills. she glanced between them, brows raised.

“right, what’s going on?” she asked, instantly suspicious. “why are you all looking at me like that?”

beth grinned, brushing off leah’s words casually as alessia tried and failed to get a word out “oh, no reason.”

leah narrowed her eyes. “i don’t believe you.”

alessia could already feel the heat creeping up her neck as she avoided leah’s gaze entirely, focusing intently on tying and re-tying the lace of her boot like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

lia was the first to break. “we were just telling lee the very interesting story that tiny told us today!”

leah frowned. “tiny?”

beth hummed, practically vibrating with excitement. “yeo. she told us she saw her mummy kissing someone the other night.”

leah went still as if time had just stopped entirely as alessia squeezed her eyes shut.

beth, loving every second of this, continued, “and when we asked who it was, she just shrugged and said, ‘the pretty one with the yellow hair.’”

leah’s mouth fell open slightly. “she what?” alessia groaned. “oh my god, please stop.”

beth cackled. “absolutely not.”

leah blinked, trying to process, then turned to alessia. “wait—so she saw?” alessia buried her face in her hands. “apparently.”

leah let out a breath, running a hand through her hair before chuckling. “i mean… i thought we were being careful.”

lia smirked. “clearly not careful enough.”

beth, still grinning like the Cheshire cat, wiggled her brows. “you two have been sneaking around, haven’t you?”

leah smirked. “and what if we have?”

alessia groaned again. “le, please don’t encourage them.”

leah just laughed, bumping her shoulder against alessia’s. “well, i guess now that we’ve been exposed by tiny, we don’t have to keep sneaking around anymore.”

alessia peeked up at her. “you’re way too calm about this.”

leah grinned. “i just think it’s funny.”

beth nodded enthusiastically agreeing with leah. “oh, it’s hilarious.”

lia snorted. “especially since tiny told us like she was giving us the most casual piece of information in the world.”

alessia let out a long, suffering sigh. “of course she did”

beth leaned in, lowering her voice to a teasing whisper. “i hope you two realise we’re never letting you live this down.”

leah threw an arm around alessia’s shoulders, grinning. “oh, i wouldn’t expect anything less from you beth!”

alessia just shook her head, knowing this was going to haunt her forever. but when leah squeezed her shoulder, sending her a small smile, she couldn’t help but smile back.

maybe being caught wasn’t all bad.

—

that night, after training, alessia coming home from having dinner at her parents house. you seeing your grandparents and getting rid of some extra energy, alessia got you home and into your pyjamas, letting you pick out a bedtime story and tucked you in as usual.

just as your mummy was about to stand up and leave, you grabbed her hand.

“mummy?” alessia sat back down. “yeah, baby?”

you looked at her with wide, sleepy eyes. “are you and lele girlfriends now?”

your mummy just blinked wide, surprised at your question, “why do you ask that?”

you yawned, snuggling deeper under your cozy covers. “‘cause you kiss her and you always smile when she’s here.”

alessia felt something warm settle in her chest. she tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. “i don’t know yet, lovie. we’re still figuring it out.”

you considered your mummy’s words for a moment, then nodded, seemingly satisfied.

“okay,” you mumbled, already half-asleep. “i like her.”

alessia smiled. “i know you do.” she pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “now go to sleep, you little troublemaker.”

you giggled, eyes already fluttering shut as alessia stood up and turned off the lamp making sure to put your night light on, she shook her head to herself.

beady little eyes, indeed.

🤣🤣

Top of the League, Bottom of the Class

Summary: Y/n’s got energy for days, jokes for every occasion, and zero patience for schoolwork. Too bad Alexia and Leah are determined to make her study, even during international break.

Warnings: Alexia is a bit...stern at the beginning, but I swear she softens up to our girl y/n!!

Word count: 7.4k

Notes: This was based on a request

Masterlist

..

The sun was setting over Barcelona's training ground, it was late already–too late for a certain player to be on the pitch. But Y/n was there, happier than ever, with her headphones on while she trained some dribbling skills with one of the dummies.

The training had ended one hour ago, but some players were still at Barcelona’s training ground, although most of them were having physiotherapy sessions or late gym hours–meaning they were far away from the pitch, so there weren’t any chances Y/n would be caught.

Y/n had a whole thing planned out. After training, she took a shower in the changing room, talked a bit with Jana and Vicky before taking her gym bag and saying goodbye, walking through the door as she rambled about how much homework she had to do when she got home.

But when Jana and Vicky took a left in the corridors, Y/n told them she had forgotten her water bottle–again, so she had to go back and get it. Jana and Vicky watched as Y/n walked. The two girls had no idea that their friend was actually planning yet another training session on the pitch.

Although no one could know about Y/n’s late-night rendezvous, because she actually wasn’t allowed to stay in the training center past 6 pm, Barcelona’s team had created this rule because Y/n got so caught up training after-hours that she didn’t do her homework.

Y/n had to balance school, in between being professional players for Barcelona and England, but the girl couldn't care less about school.

Football was her life. It wasn’t just her passion; it was the one thing that made her feel truly alive. 

She was a star on the pitch, but when it came to school, she was a different story. Books? Boring. Homework? A waste of time. For her, the only subject that mattered was football.

Her grades were slipping…badly. The headmistress at her school had to call Barcelona’s office to talk about it because Y/n’s parents weren’t in the country, and she had no one to take care of

Of course, Barcelona thought it would be a good idea to assign someone to assist and look over Y/n. A normal club would have hired a teacher, or even a babysitter, but since Barcelona had this weird "Som una família" [we’re family] vibes, they assigned no one less than La Reina, Alexia Putellas herself, to be the one to help her with geometry homework.

At first, Y/n thought Alexia wouldn't take it seriously, maybe just to go to some parent-teacher meetings when necessary. But no, Alexia had made it one of her life responsibilities to get Y/n through math classes.

And that’s why she was hiding from Alexia now. She had told the captain that she was going home just before she met with Vicky and Jana. Alexia just nodded and kissed her on the cheeks as she–very weirdly–was the first to go home.

Y/n could easily fit in another hour or two of training before the center actually closed. What if she had history homework? Barcelona had a big game coming up, plus, international dates were just a few weeks away, and she had been called up to the senior squad again–she had to be in top shape.

So Y/n stayed on the pitch. Her headphones on. 

She flicked the ball between her feet to the rhythm of Young Hearts Run Free, lost in the music and movement. She didn’t even hear the footsteps approaching. She only noticed when…

Yank.

A sharp pain ran through her ear as her headphone was pulled out of her head.

"Ouch"! Y/n turned around, rubbing the sore spot. "What the fuck?! That’s child abuse–"

Her eyes found a very, very angry Alexia. Her throat felt dry, as if she couldn't speak.

She was in so much trouble.

Alexia was right in front of her, arms crossed, looking very unhappy. Her hair was down,  her make-up was done, and…wait. Was she wearing…a dress? Huh?

"Ale? What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing, nena," Alexia said sternly. "How many times have I told you to go straight home after training?"

Y/n looked down, playing with the ball on her feet, feeling her cheeks blushing for getting caught.

"I asked you a question," Alexia said– before kicking the ball from y/n’s feet, sending it rolling into the net.

Goal..yay?

"I just need to train more, Ale!" Y/n said exasperatedly, pointing towards the goal as if to prove her point. “International break is c–”

"International breaks do not matter if you fail school!" Alexia said. "You know you need to present a clean school report to play for the senior squad, right?"

"Yes, I know that," Y/n muttered. 

"It doesn't seem like you do," Alexia said, casually pulling her phone from her purse and holding it up to Y/n’s face.

Oh no, Y/n knew what that meant.

"You got a 2/10 on your biology test, and then a 3/10 on your math test," Alexia said. "First of all, why am I finding out about it through an email? Why didn't you tell me?

"Because you’d get mad at me just like you’re now!" Y/n shot back

"I'm not mad!" Alexia said, voice tight. "I'm disappointed."

Y/n froze and stared at Alexia.

Y/n felt a cold rush go through her body, setting a weight on her chest.

Disappointed? She could handle being yelled at. She could deal with Alexia being frustrated or angry. But disappointment? Y/n didn’t know what to do with this. It felt wrong.

"I make time on my schedule to help you study," Alexia said, her finger counting off each point. "I buy things you need for school projects, I read the same books you need to read for Spanish class to try and motivate you, and this is what I get in return? Slack?’

Y/n felt her eyes fill with tears. She tried to find something to say, but her usual funny and witty comments that would normally get her out of any serious situation were nowhere to be found.

Alexia was looking at her, her eyes and lips tight, her foot tapping on the grass restlessly. She missed the usual gentle and patient Alexia right now more than anything.

"I know you love football, Y/n, but this," Alexia pointed towards the pitch. "Is only a small part of what your life will look like in the future; you need to be ready for more."

Y/n swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, trying not to let Alexia see her tears, but she failed. She quickly wiped it away with the sleeve of her barça hoodie while looking away.

“You need school to move forward, you can be the very best players on the pitch, but if you don’t give the same effort off of it, you’re not going to make it very far,” Alexia’s voice softened just slightly.

Alexia’s words hung in the air as she watched the girl standing in front of her.

“Sorry,” Y/n said quietly, “I shouldn't have hid it from you.”

"Have I ever made you feel like you needed to hide things from me?" Alexia said, taking a step closer and placing her hand on Y/n’s shoulder as she leaned just slightly to be the same height as her eyes.

Y/n shook her head.

“Exactly," Alexia said,  putting a hand on Y/n’s shoulder. “This is the first time I’ve been stern with you, isn’t it?”

Y/n nodded, looking away.

“Will it be the last?” Alexia asked.

Y/n wished she could easily nod along without a second thought, but she also knew how much of a hard time she had with school. But still, she couldn't let it happen again, and couldn't let Alexia get this upset with her.

So she forced the word out. “Yes.”

“Okay, good,”  Alexia said. “Let's go. It's late.”

Without another word, Alexia turned toward the exit, and Y/n followed her.

They didn’t talk on the way out, but the silence wasn’t necessarily uncomfortable. 

The steady weight of Alexia’s hand on her shoulder, and the way she effortlessly picked up Y/n’s training bag and slung it over her own–it was enough.

Y/n didn’t need to hear the words to know that she was forgiven.

They walked through the car park, the night cold and the postlight brightening the way they made Alexia's black car.

Y/n was already thinking of what to expect from the car drive as she rubbed the sting on her ear from where Alexia had oh-so-graciously removed her headphones and tugged at her ear.

They would probably be in a quiet, awkward ride–just her and Alexia’s disappointing sight and, very occasionally, passive-aggressive grips on the steering wheel as Alexia made sure to put on the worst songs ever known to humankind.

Alexia had given Y/n a bunch of rides, so Y/n followed the usual routine of going to the passenger seat, but to her surprise, there was a woman sitting there,

One Y/n had never met. 

Y/n tilted her head, trying to think of every single player of every single women's team in La Liga. No, she wasn’t in any team. Then she thought of the staff of Barcelona… also no.

Yep, Y/n had no clue who this person was.

Y/n slowed her steps, eyebrows furrowing as she took in the unfamiliar woman sitting there. 

She was pretty. Dark hair, and soft features, a warm smile was on her lips as she watched Y/n and Alexia approaching.

Y/n stopped right outside the car, looking between her and Alexia with suspicion. "Uh, Ale? Who is this?"

Alexia sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose as if already exhausted by the interrogation she knew was coming.

"Y/n, this is Olga. Olga, this is Y/n." Alexia said simply. "You go there," Alexia pointed at the back seat.

Olga turned fully in her seat, extending a hand out the window.

"So you’re the famous nena, huh?" Olga said, smiling genuinely. "Alexia talked a lot about you."

"Oh yeah? She did?" Y/n shook her head before immediately nodding. "I like you already… Olga."

She pulled open the back door and climbed in as Alexia slid into the driver’s seat.

Silence settled over the car as Alexia started driving. Y/n had expected her to be better at small talk, but apparently, she wasn’t.

"So…" Y/n leaned forward, poking her head between the front seats. "Who even are you, Olga?"

"Get back to your seat and put on your seat belt," Alexia said sharply. "And…we were having dinner."

"Having dinner?" Y/n asked.

"Sí"

"Where?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes."

"It’s that Italian place near Carrer de Pàdua," Olga finally explained, noticing how Alexia seemed to only give the young girl vague answers. "It’s great!"

"Wait–did you guys go to L'Italiano Perso?" Y/n asked

"Sí," Alexia said again. "We were on a date–"

Y/n’s eyes widened. "Wait. What?" She stopped buckling herself up, being too shocked by Alexia’s revelation.

"A date, Y/n," Alexia said in exasperation, a heavy voice. "You know, when two people who like each other go out…u might not know much about it, but–"

"Since when do you date?!" Y/n interrupted. "And excuse me? I go on plenty of dates! Thank you!"

"Drop it." Alexia sought, tying her hands around the wheel, Y/n could even see the blush of her cheeks

"Oh bloody hell!" Y/n exposed, putting her hand on her own cheeks. "Does your mom know about it? Your sister?"

"If you don’t shut up, I’m stopping at the England embassy to have you deported," Alexia said, deadpanned.

"Ok, that was rude," Y/n said, finishing buckling her seatbelt and leaning her back into her seat. "I can think of a few English people who would love to have me back."

"Let’s get you back to then, maybe this way I can have a proper date once"

The drive was mostly silent after that, Y/n noticed that Alexia's awful music taste was replaced by cool, modern songs. After a few minutes thinking why Y/n saw that it was Olga’s Spotify that was connected to Alexia's car.

Hm. Good piece of information. 

That meant that it wasn’t their first date…

Wait. Fuck

Y/n’s stomach sank.  Alexia was on a date. 

A date that she had to interrupt because of Y/n's stupid irresponsibility

“Oh no!” Y/n said.

“Oh no?” Olga turned to look at her, and then at Alexia, as if the blonde could decipher everything that came out of Y/n’s mouth. “What happened?”

“I ruined your date.” Y/n’s eyes widened. “I'm so sorry, Ale!”

“Nena," she sighed as she held the wheel with one hand and rubbed her temples with the other. “You didn’t ruin anything, don’t worry.”

“No, seriously, I totally ruined your date." Y/n looked between them, horrified. “That’s why you look… so put together all of a sudden! That’s why you were in a dress! I thought that was weird! I’m so–”

“Y/n." Alexia’s voice was sharp, a blush growing into her neck as she avoided making eye contact with Olga, who was biting down a laugh. “Shut. Up.”

Y/n pouted. “But did I really ruin it?”

Alexia sighed. “We were having dinner, and then I got that email about your grades, and I got mad. So I drove to your house, and when you weren’t there, I knew exactly where you’d be.”

"Uh…oops?." Y/n cringed.

Y/n realised she could never be captain. Imagine being on a date and receiving an email from a kid–that wasn’t even your kid– saying they went bad on a test about cell division and having to drop everything to go look for them? Nope.

Olga turned in her seat again, resting her chin on her palm as she looked at Y/n. “You know, if you wanted to sabotage Alexia’s love life, there are easier ways.”

Y/n quickly caught Olga’s teasing tone and smiled at her.

"I wasn’t trying to sabotage, I was just training, I swear!" Y/n laughed, loving watching how Alexia’s eyes rolled.

"Instead of doing your homework," Alexia added, making a U-turn.

Y/n groaned, dramatically. "I get it, I get it, I’m a disappointment, bla bla bla"

"You’re not a disappointment," Alexia rolled her eyes. "Stop being dramatic, you’re just–"

“An academic disaster?” Y/n offered an awkward smile on her face.

“A headache.” Alexia finished.

“You two are fun," Olga said, placing a hand on Alexis's thigh. "It makes me laugh.”

Y/n grinned. "Does that mean I can be the third wheel all the time?"

"No," Alexia said

"We’ll see," Olga said at the same time, winking at Y/n.

Y/n sat up quickly, having a bright idea. "Well, if that’s how it’s gonna be, I might as well ask… Olga, do you know anything about mitosis and meiosis? I’ve got a test coming up..."

Alexia immediately shot a glare at her. "Y/n, no. Stop bothering Olga."

Y/n put her hands up defensively. "Hey, I’m just trying to help my education!"

"Maybe you should help yourself first," Alexia mumbled.

"You know, you should listen to your captain before she strangles you," Olga said, laughing. 

Y/n watched as Alexia smirked at Olga…Smirked!

"Okay, ew!" Y/n said, "Was that…flirting? Please stop the car so I can throw up."

"Oh Déu meu, nena, calla!" Alexia snapped.

Y/n squinted her eyes. "I have no idea what you just said, Alexia, but I bet it was rude!".

But then, Y/n noticed something strange.

Y/n leaned forward, confusion in her eyes. "Wait a minute...why aren’t you driving me home?"

"I’m going to school with you tomorrow," Alexia said casually, as if it wasn’t a big deal at all. "It’s easier if you sleep at mine, I’ll drop by your house in the morning so you can get your school bag and then we can head out from the..."

Y/n raised her eyebrows. "What? Why are you going to school with me?"

“They want to talk about your grades and about the next international break –you’ll be three weeks out of school, they want to see how we can organize your school work.”

"Okay, but they can talk to me about it," Y/n said. "Why do they want you there

"Why do they want me there? Nena, did I  give you an earful for nothing?" Alexia glanced at her, impatience in her voice. "I’m responsible for you! They want to make sure you’ll have an actual adult looking out for your education."

"So you’re coming with me—" Y/n said carefully.  "Like, as a parent?"

"Sí," Alexia replied, completely unfazed. 

"Oh, come on, Ale! This is so embarrassing!"Y/n threw herself back into her seat, groaning. "Don’t you have training or something better to do?"

"Sí, I do actually," Alexia simply said. “And I’ll be very happy at training tomorrow if I didn’t have to go talk to the headmistress, but since someone needs to keep an eye on you, I’ll be the one to do it."

Alexia paused for a second, then added, "Also, you’re benched for the next two games."

"What? No!" Y/n yelled.

"Sí."

"You can’t do that!"

Alexia turned to her with a calm expression. "I just did, nena.”

Y/n ran her hands through her face dramatically. “You’re ruining my career, forever.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Alexia waved off with one hand. “You’ll survive.”

“I don’t think I will.”

“We’ll see that.”

Y/n groaned again and rolled her eyes.

"You beware, Olga," Y/n mumbled, crossing her arms and looking out of the window. "She’s always this pain in the a–"

"You just won yourself another game on the bench," Alexia said. “Wow, that’s got to be a new personal record, huh?”

Looked at Alexia through the rearview mirror, indignation on her face. 

Olga raised her eyebrows, biting back a grin as she watched Y/n’s reaction. She gave her leg a light pat, offering no real support.

"Oh, rough amiga, but maybe you can study a bit while you’re on the sideline."

"You know what, Olga," Y/n said with a betrayed look in her eyes. "I don’t like you anymore."

..

When they finally reached Alexia’s house, Y/n was determined to get back at Alexia for being so… she wasn't actually sure. A responsible adult?A good guardian? It didn’t matter the reasoning, she just wanted to annoy Alexia.

But now, after meeting Olga, Y/n realized there were even better and more efficient ways to annoy Alexia.

As they stepped inside, Y/n noticed how familiar Olga seemed with the place, so she couldn’t help but smirk, and she formulated a plan.

"It’s your first time here?" Y/n asked, casually tossing her gym bag by the door.

"Nena," Alexia warned, making sure Y/n knew Alexia was very aware of what she was doing.

"Oh, no," Olga said, flashing Y/n a smile. "I’ve been here before… You know, movie nights and stuff like that."

"Oh yeah," Y/n said, dragging out the words with insinuation. "Movie night, I get it," she winked at Olga.

"So where am I sleeping?" Y/n asked, changing her attention from Olga to Alexia.

"Guest room."

"But you only have one guest room!" Y/n protested, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah? And?" Alexia shrugged, her tone casual. "You’re only one person."

"But where’s Olga sleeping?" Y/n pressed, leaning in with a teasing grin.

"In my room," Alexia replied nonchalantly, trying not to make a big deal about it so Y/n wouldn’t make a big deal about it. 

But of course, Alexia was wrong.

Y/n shot a playful glance at Olga, eyes glinting with mischief. "Oh, okay," she said, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm. "Well, I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone then…don’t wanna get in the way of more than just the date, you know."

Olga bit back a laugh, but Alexia turned to Y/n with a look that could kill.

"Go. Now." Alexia pointed toward the stairs. "And do all your homework for tomorrow. I’ll check in during breakfast."

All the playfulness drained from Y/n’s face.

"All my homework?” Y/n whined, “It’s a lot of stuff and it’s late already!”

"Should’ve thought of that before sneaking out to the pitch," Alexia said, her voice emotionless.

Y/n groaned dramatically. "I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah. It’s part of the job," Alexia said, waving her off like it was nothing. "Now go."

..

Y/n did what Alexia asked of her, or at least…she tried.

She had to do homework for basically every subject because she didn’t get any work done during the week, so it was all piling up. She grabbed Alexia’s notebook from her room before accessing her school website and logging in to see every assignment and reading she had to do, and it was a lot.

She began her while lying on the bed, reading slide presentations and watching some YouTube videos about the subjects. It helped a little, but everything was still so blurry in her head.

Why did she have to learn geometry? Or learn about the deep history of every country in Europe? 

The girl groaned and closed the notebook, putting it aside.

She was dumb. That's what it was.

Y/n was always the slowest in class, the last kid to learn how to read or to spell, the one you absolutely didn't go to if you had questions about school work. Y/ns teachers also made sure she knew how bad she was compared to other students.

She felt inferior and worthless whenever she was in school. But when she was on the pitch? She was good–one of the best, even!

That’s why she didn't like to do homework, it reminded her how much harder she had to work compared to others just to get a 6/10.

Y/n rolled her eyes and turned around, she turned around a lot before she was actually able to fall asleep.

..

Y/n woke up to the sound of her phone ringing and vibrating aggressively under her pillow. She barely had time to process what was happening, and she looked at the screen on the phone, confused, reading the name Leah Williamson.

She sighed and rubbed her eyes, knowing exactly why Leah was calling. She had barely survived Alexia’s lecture, and now she is going to have to hear through another one.

With a deep breath, Y/n clicked the green button on the screen. "If this is about the email, I–"

"What email?" Leah's voice came on, slightly confused.

"Hmm… this isn’t about the email?"

"No, this is about you not doing your homework–according to Alexia" There was a pause. "Should I be checking my email too?"

Y/n cursed under her breath before replying. "No! No email. Forget I said that…I just woke up, so I must have, hm, dreamed about…emails"

"Uhum,” Leah said sarcastically. "I’ll be asking Alexia about that later…Now tell me what the hell is going on with you? Sneaking to the pitch? Really?"

Y/n winced. "Leah, I’ve already talked to Alexia about it, I don’t need you too–"

"Yes, you do need me to talk to you because it seems like you think you’re your own person, but you are only sixteen.”

“Leah!” Y/n groaned.

"No, Y/n. You don’t get to complain. You promised you’d take school seriously." Leah said, and Y/n quickly remembered the numerous times Leah had also lectured her about it during camp. "And don’t try the ‘football is all I need’ argument, because you and I both know that’s not true."

Y/n pressed her lips together, knowing full well she wouldn’t win this one. She kept quiet, scared to say the wrong thing and make Leah even more mad.

"I’m serious, Y/n. You need to get your act together. Alexia’s worried!" Leah said. "She told me it wasn't the first time that you played football instead of studying! You need to learn your responsibilities."

Y/n muttered something that Leah couldn't understand..

"What was that?" Leah asked

"I said that Alexia is a snitch."

"She’s a snitch because you didn't tell me first," Leah said. "But since I need to have the Alexia Putellas on my phone giving me updates about your school life, we both decided to do things in our own way."

Y/n gulped, scared of whatever Alexia and Leah had planned together

"You can expect a lot, and I mean a lot of textbooks in your room when you get to camp," Leah said. "I’ll keep a close eye on you here in England, and Alexia will do the same when you’re in Barcelona; we won’t let you keep this on."

"Serious kid," Leah continued. "You moved to Spain on your own at sixteen, you have your own house, you’re talented, but you refuse to do a few math exercises? Come on, mate"

"I’m sorry," Y/n muttered. "I’ll be better, I’m just…"

"What?" Leah asked, her voice softer now.

"I'm dumb, okay!" Y/n blurted out before she could stop herself. "I don’t get things quickly, and it just—it doesn’t stick like it does with other people."

"Hey, don’t say that," Leah cut in, her voice sharp with concern. "Struggling with school doesn’t make you dumb, you’re smart, kid. You wouldn’t be where you are if you weren't."

"It doesn't seem like that most of the time," y/n said in a low voice.

"You might not see it," Leah said. "But the people around you certainly do, that’s why we keep pushing you, we know you can do much better."

"Look, I have to go," Y/n sighed. "Alexia apparently has to go to school with me today."

"Okay, kid, we’ll talk later, then," Leah said. "Good luck with that! Love you, bye!"

"Love you too," y/n said before she hung up the phone and put it aside.

Y/n rubbed the sleep off of her eyes, and that’s when she heard the door crack open.

"You’re not dumb, nena," Alexia said, firm but gentle.

Y/n’s head snapped up. "Ale! Were you…eavesdropping on my conversation?"

"Sí," Alexia replied without hesitation, crossing her arms. "You’re loud, and I was coming to tell you breakfast is ready."

Y/n groaned, sinking further into her seat. "Unbelievable."

Alexia didn’t waver. She leaned forward slightly, her expression serious. "Cariño, listen to me. You are not dumb. Don’t ever say that again, do you understand?"

Y/n hesitated, biting the inside of her cheek. "I just have a really hard time with…school.”

“Then we’ll get you help,” Alexia sighed, stepping closer to Y/n and sitting on the bed by her side. “But first you need to try, you can’t give up like that.”

“We’ll figure it out, sí?” Alexia continued. “I’ll talk to your teachers today, and we’ll think of something.

Y/n nodded, a little more reassured. "Okay."

“Girls!” y/n heard Olga calling from downstairs. “Your breakfast is getting cold!”

“Breakfast, huh?” Y/n nudged Alexia with her shoulder. “Should I get used to seeing Olga around?”

Alexia rolled her eyes, ignoring Y/n and extending her hand, palm open. 

“Let me see your homework.”

“Oh come on, mate!”

..

When Alexia said she'd find Y/n some help, she really wasn’t joking.

She had created a whole schedule that balanced football, school, and dedicated study time. She even printed it out and made Y/n hang it in her room, so she’d always know what her day looked like.

Since she was a student-athlete, she only attended school for half the day, doing the rest online. Her schedule was packed—morning classes, lunch, training, online lessons, more training, and homework. That last part? She used to skip it. But now, with Alexia’s plan written out for her, she actually stuck to it.

At first, Y/n thought she’d hate it. That she'd never get used to it. But having a routine was so much easier than doing whatever came to her mind. Plus, her schedule included team study nights, and those turned out to be some of the most fun days of the week.

“I don’t get it,” Aitana said, holding her biology book close to her face, eyes squinted. “It looks so weird.”

Pina turned the book, which was upside down– for her. “Maybe this way is better.”

“No,” Aitana shook her head. “Still weird.”

Y/n was in the middle of writing an essay when their conversation caught her attention. She looked up and scooted close to Aitana and Pina.

“What are you guys looking at?” Y/n asked.

“This,” Aitana said, pointing at the page.

Y/n furrowed her eyebrows “Oh, that’s how the replication of DNA goes.” Y/n said casually, coming back to her work. “You know, double string, DNA polymerase, nucleic acids.”

There was silence.

“And since when did you know that?” Pina finally asked.

Y/n shrugged, getting back at her assay. “Just do.”

“Oh,” Aitana muttered, back to the books. “Alexia is for sure going to love that.”

“Please make sure to tell her,” Y/n sighed dramatically.  “So she can take me off the bench already,” 

..

Y/n had just finished a painfully online lesson when her phone rang. She barely glanced at the screen before answering.

“What?”

“Hello to you too, sunshine,” Leah's dry voice came through.

“I’m busy,” Y/m said, taking the pencil she was holding off of her mouth before taking a new textbook and putting it on her study table.

“Too busy for your favorite captain?” Leah teased.

“Oh, I didn’t know this was Alexia,” Y/n said, teasing Leah back;

“You’re awful.”

“Not as awful as school,” Y/n groaned, letting her head fall on the open textbook.

“That bad?” Leah hummed.

“I had to write a whole page about the First Carlist War, it took like an hour!”

“Wow, a whole page,” Leah snorted. “I’m impressed you survived that.”

“You said that because you aren’t the one having to write about dead people after an excruciating training session.”

“Yeah, if you actually did your work, maybe Alexia wouldn’t have to babysit you and make that schedule.”

“She doesn’t babysit me!” Y/n scowled. Offended. “I still live alone and-”

“Oh really?” Leah interrupted. “Then what’s that piece of paper in your room that tells you exactly when to eat, sleep, study… breathe.”

“It’s a routine, Leah.”

“Yeah, routines are like fancy for babysitting teens,” Leah said. “But seriously, though, I'm happy you're actually following it, keep it up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Y/n huffed, but her lips twitched in a small smile “Don't worry.”

“Okay, kid, gotta go now,” Leah said. “I’m looking forward to your thrilling Carlist War facts when you get to camp next week.”

“Oh, I’ll make sure you listen to them,” Y/n shot back, but it sounded more like a dare.

..

“Are you really sure this is a healthy way of studying?” Salma asked, eying the situation with doubt.

When Y/n had called her, Vick and Jana to her flat for a ‘Girl’s Night’, a Don Quixote quiz wasn’t something she was expecting.

“It seems like fun to me,” Vick said with a grin. “Go on, Salma, ask her already.”

Salma sighed but turned to Y/n, while Jana stood next to her, holding a pillow threateningly close to Y/n’s face. “Alright—why is the narrator of Don Quixote so different when compared to other books?”

Y/n groaned, “Ugh– okay! The narrator is different because the author itself is the one telling the story. But he, uh, kind of switches styles to first person sometimes to give some insight about the story, so it’s like he’s the narrator and a character,” she said quickly, squeezing her eyes shut, waiting for the impact,

Silence.

“Oh, come on,” Vick said, disappointed, glancing down at the little card in Salma‘s hand .“She’s right.”

Jana lowered the pillow dramatically. “Salma! Ask harder questions!”

“You guys are supposed to be helping me study for my literature test, not trying to beat me up with a pillow!” Y/n complained. “Give me some credit here!”

Salma flipped through the flashcards. “Okay, fine…Um, what does the character Dulcinea mean to the story?”

Y/n widened her eyes and opened her mouth. “Oh, hm, it’s like–”

Whack.

Jana didn't even wait for Y/n to say anything before hitting her on the face–hard.

“Jana!” Y/n complained, shoving the pillow away from her face and rubbing at the sore spot on her nose. “I knew that one! She exemplifies the emptiness behind Don quixote's quest for valor and virtue or some shit like that!.”

Salma hesitantly checked on her notes. “–Hm, yeah, she’s right.”

“See!” y/n said, pointing accusingly at Jana. “I was right, you shouldn't have hit me.”

“Oh, she should have hit you harder for being such a nerd,” Vicky mumbled

“Ok, that’s bullying,” Y/n said. “I'll report you to Aitana.”

...

A week later, Alexia stood with Y/n at the airport, arms crossed as she eyed her sternly. “Do your homework, Y/n. I’m serious. And if you have trouble, FaceTime me and we’ll do it together.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow. "Last time you tried to help me, you didn’t understand it either.”

Alexia rolled her eyes. "Yeah, whatever. Olga helped you, though, so FaceTime her if you need to."

"You’re just trying to find reasons for me to interact with Olga because we’re like.. your favourite people in the world," Y/n smirked. 

Alexia ignored the comment and continued, “And I’ll call Leah to make sure you’re keeping up with everything we agreed on.”

"Great. Two captains breathing down my neck. Love that for me." Y/n groaned, throwing her head back dramatically.

"You’ll survive, cariño,” Alexia smirked. “Now go before you miss your flight.

..

Y/n was a smart girl, so she made sure to finish most of her homework on the flight to England. That way, when she got to camp, she wouldn’t have to stress over schoolwork too much.

“Hey,” Aggie and Grace greeted as they walked into the room.

The three of them were sharing a room at camp, though Aggie had seriously considered complaining about it. 

Every night, Y/n sprawled herself and a ridiculous number of books and notebooks across the floor, creeping very closely to Aggie’s side of the room.

“Wanna go out with us?” Aggie asked, leaning in the doorway. “We’re all heading to that restaurant we talked about.”

Y/n immediately looked up from her book, grinning as she pushed herself up, kicking her books aside. “Yes! You know I’ll never turn down a night out–”

“Have you done your math homework?”

The voice came from behind Aggie and Grace. Both girls instinctively stepped aside.

Leah.

Y/n’s excitement disappeared in seconds. Her shoulders dropped, and her grin turned into a frown. “Le, come on! It’s halfway done. I’ll finish it when I get back.”

“No,” Leah said simply. “You finish it first, then you go out.”

There was no room for argument. Leah was already disappearing down the hallway before Y/n could even think of an excuse.

“I hate this.” Y/n groaned dramatically as she flopped onto Aggie’s bed, ignoring the judgment of the girl's eyes. “I hate school. I hate math. I hate Leah.”

“I think she’s still in the hallway,” Grace whispered.

“It’s alright,” Y/n groaned, “she knows how I feel.”

Y/n mourned her lost night out for a short thirty seconds before she had a brilliant idea. She turned around on the bed, facing the girls, her best puppy dog eyes on her face as she silently pleaded for help.

Grace and Aggie exchanged a look. They both sighted, already regretting it.

“Okay, fine,” Grace said. “We’ll help you finish it faster.”

Y/n happily got off the bed and picked up the math book she had so dramatically kicked under the bed earlier. She flipped to the exercises page and showed it to them.

Both Grace and Aggie squinted their eyes.

“Wait,” Aggia frowned, looking at it closer. “What is this? Where are the–numbers?”

“It’s algebra,” Y/n muttered. “It only has letters.”

“How are we supposed to calculate anything if it doesn't have any number?” Grace asked, despair on her face.

“I'm so not going out tonight,” Y/n said hopelessly.

“I mean..” Aggie began hesitantly. “What’s the worst that could happen if you just…didn’t do it?”

“Yeah,” Grace nodded. “It’s not like Leah would, I don’t know…punch you or anything.”

Y/n went still, but then, with a slow and heavy sigh, she closed the textbook, looking at the wall, as if she was staring into the void. “She’d do something much worse than punching me.”

Aggie and Grace shared another nervous glance. “Like–?” Aggie asked.

“She’d tell Alexia,” Y/n said, eyes full of dread.

“Oh,” Grace paled.

“Yep,” Y/n nodded. “And Alexia would definitely make me do some boxing classes with her just so she could punch me in a non-illegal way.”

Aggie swallowed. “Alright,” she said, trying to shake her fear. “Let’s, hm, do some…math.”

Y/n smiled. “That’s what I thought.”

Algebra wasn't easy. At all.

Aggie, Grace and Y/n tried very hard, but they took 30 minutes to do one exercise–and they weren’t even sure if it was right.

“This isn’t working,” Y/n groaned, staring down at the ruined page in front of her. The paper was ripped in half from how many times she had erased her answer. “We need another plan.”

“I know what we could do, actually,” Aggie announced.

Y/n and Grace perked up. “What?”  Y/n asked hopefully.

“Lucy,” Aggie said in a lower voice, leaning in. “She could do that in like… 20 minutes”.

Y/n blinked. “Lucy?”

“And since when does Lucy know anything about algebra?” Grace frowned.

“She doesn’t,” Aggie admitted. “But we don’t need her knowledge. We need her personality.”

“You better not make me regret it,” Y/n said, “If Leah knows about it I'm gonna be screwed.”

“Relax, leave it out to me.” Aggia waved a hand dismissively.

With that, Aggie confidently grabbed the textbook and walked out of the room, leaving Y/n and Grace apprehensive.

Half an hour had passed before Aggie finally walked back in, holding the textbook as if she had just stolen it somewhere.

“I did it,” Aggie announced happily.

Grace and Y/n got out of the bed they were sitting on. “No way,” Grace murmured.

“How the fuck did she do that?” Y/n asked, snatching the book from Aggie’s hand, flipping the pages in disbelief.

“She did them all?” Grace asked, peeking behind Y/n’s shoulder.

All forty exercises. All done.

In Y/n’s defense, she had made twenty-five of them before Aggie and Grace had come to the room, so technically Lucy didn’t do all the homework for her– Lucy just… helped.

“What did you do, Aggie?” Y/n asked, mouth slightly open from the surprise.

“I dared her,” Aggie said, shrugging casually.

“You…dared her?” Grace asked.

“Yep! Knocked into her room and said I dared she could do those,” Aggie pointed at the book with her chin. “Lucy’s very competitive, so of course she said yes without asking any questions–she just snatched the book out of my hand and went to work.”

“Oh wow,” Y/n Grace.

“You’re like an evil genius,” Y/n said, shaking her head in amazement.

Y/n sat back, flipping through the pages in awe. “Lucy actually did it. Oh. My. God.”

“Oh, yeah,” Aggie said casually. “And then she asked if there were more.”

Y/n and Grace exchanged wide-eyed glances.

“We have got to use this against her more often,” Y/n muttered. “I feel like we just discovered a gold mine.”

“Exactly,” Aggie smirked. “Now let’s get ready, we have a night out waiting for us.”

..

The rest of the camp was unfazed. Y/n actually did all of her homework–by herself–and she didn’t even have to ask Lucy to do it. A true miracle.

It was safe to say Y/n was learning something.

Leah and Alexia were proud of her–even though, technically, she hadn’t mentioned the whole algebra episode to either of them. 

But it only happened once…It wasn’t like they were going to find out.

She just needed to make sure Lucy would stay away from Leah, or else she would be dead.

Literally dead. Gone.

Football would lose one of ot’s brightest stars.

..

The flight back home was good. 

Y/n actually enjoyed her flight this time because she had no school work to do, a feeling she hadn’t felt in weeks. And the best part? Coming back to Barcelona after winning four games during the international break.

That feeling was great. But not having to take a cab home because Alexia was waiting at the airport for her was even better.

When Y/n spotted the blonde before waving and grinning. She ran to her and practically crashed into Alexia’s arm, her suitcase rolled somewhere behind her.

“I see you missed me,” Alexia teased, wrapping the girl in a hug.

“No, I didn’t,” Y/n mumbled, her face buried in Alexia’s hoodie.

Y/n loved England. It was her home–the place where she grew up, where her real family lived. It reminded her of her childhood, of play dates with her cousin and road trips with her parents.

But Spain was hers. The place she chose, surrounded by people she picked. It was different 

“Leah told me you were actually good,” Alexia murmured. “Did everything, didn’t skip any online school.” 

Alexia and Y/n walked through the airport.

“Yeah! What can I do? I’m actually smart when I want to be,” Y/n smiled..

Alexia hummed, but this time with a hint of amusement.

“So you imagine my surprise,” Alexia continued casually. “When Lucy texted me–something she hadn't done since she left Barcelona–saying she wanted to do more of your ‘exercises’, that they were cool.”

Y/n froze.

She felt her blood run cold, and she suddenly stopped. Alesia took two steps before realizing Y/n wasn’t by her side.

Alexia turned to look at her, eyebrow raised.

Fuck you Lucy, Texting Alexia? About algebra exercises?

“I, hm– well” Y/n’s brain short-circuited. “I can explain it?”

Alexia just stared.

Y/n’s mouth opened and closed. “So, technically, I did do my algebra homework.”

Alexia gave her an unimpressed, tired look.

“Like… twenty-five of them to be more exact.”

Silence.

“Which is most of them.” Y/n continued. “So you can’t be mad at me for that.”

“Does Leah know about it?” Alexia asked.

“Yes.”

Silence again

Alexia hummed and picked up her phone from her pocket. “So if I just called her right now and asked–”

“No!” Y/n blurted out, taking the phone from Alexia’s hand, “I mean–why bother her? She’s a busy woman! Euro winner and all, let’s not waste her time with…math.”

Alexia breathed through her nose, shaking her head as she calmed down. Then, the tiniest smirk appeared on her face.

Y/n was scared of what was coming.

“You’re helping clean the training center for a month.”

“No!” Y/n said dramatically.

“Sí

“Ale! Are you serious?”

“I am serious.”

“A whole month?!” Y/n rubbed her hands through her face.

“Sí.”

“Even the locker rooms?” 

“Especially the locker rooms, nena”

Y/n groaned and dragged her feet after Alexia.

“Will you tell Leah?” Y/n asked, her voice small, hoping it would make Alexia go softer.

Alexia paused for half a second–just enough to give Y/n hope. But then Alexia turned around, an annoyingly fond look on her face.

“That depends,” Alexia said. “Will you start taking your academic responsibilities more seriously?”

Y/n placed a finger on her chin, looking up. “Hmm…define ‘seriously’ first.”

Alexia sighed, already regretting giving the girl any choice.

..

Please let me know what u guys think!! Hope you liked it!!!

Masterlist

new beginnings | something blue

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader, olga rios x teen!reader

summary: your whole life is uprooted after one fall

warnings: deadbeat and neglectful parents, arguments

notes: new series!! i am actually very excited for this one so hope y’all like it. also this is a longer one!!

You pant as the stadium lights blaze down on you, illuminating the slick, rain-soaked pitch. Your lungs burn, your legs ache, but you don’t stop moving— you can’t.

The air is thick with the scent of wet grass and sweat, and the roar of the student section vibrates through your chest, deafening, chaotic. You hear the distant pounding of the drumline, the frantic voices of your coach and teammates shouting instructions, but it all blurs together. White noise.

The scoreboard looms above, flashing 1-1, with the clock winding down. Your heart hammers against your ribs. If the streak ends here, you will never forgive yourself.

A messy clearance sends the ball bouncing, fast, unpredictable, through the center of the pitch. It ricochets off a defender’s shin and lands in your path, a gift wrapped in chaos.

For a split second, everything slows. The world shrinks to you, the ball, and the goal. You barely think. You don’t have time to. Instinct takes over.

With one touch, you push it forward, just enough to create space. A defender lunges in, too late. You see the keeper off their line—hesitating, shifting their weight, waiting for a pass that isn’t coming.

You pull back your leg and strike. The ball rockets off your foot, slicing through the air like a missile. You know it’s good the moment you hit it. The sound— that perfect, crisp contact rings in your ears.

The crowd collectively gasps. It climbs, spinning, curving then dipping, impossibly fast. The keeper scrambles, their hands stretching, but it’s a second too late.

The net ripples and for a second, there’s nothing. Silence. A breath held by thousands.

The stadium erupts. Your name is swallowed by the cheers, by the stomping of feet, by the chaos of bodies surging toward you. Your teammates crash into you, arms around your shoulders, voices wild in your ears. Someone grabs your face, shaking you, yelling words you can’t even process.

The scoreboard flashes 2-1. The final whistle blows. You did it. The streak lives as does your pride.

After the game, the celebration carries into the locker room, shouting, laughter, the slamming of lockers, the sharp scent of sweat and victory. You let yourself bask in it, let yourself feel it. The thrill, the relief, the high of it all.

By the time you step outside, your friends are waiting for you, still buzzing with excitement.

“That was insane!”

“Goal of the season, easy.”

“You’re a legend.”

They throw their arms around you, ruffling your damp hair, laughing, their eyes alight with pride. You try to brush it off, but their energy is contagious.

For a moment, everything is good. Eventually, one by one, they leave, disappearing into the night. The celebration fades. The stadium empties. The high starts to wear off.

And like always, you do what you’ve done after every game.

You take a slow walk along the stands, scanning the seats. Searching. Hoping.

The lights above hum, buzzing faintly in the quiet. The student section is empty now, just rows of vacant bleachers, puddles reflecting the glow of the floodlights. Your gaze drifts over every seat, your breath shallow. Maybe this time.

But the stands are empty. No familiar faces. No one waiting for you. Just like always.

You exhale, pressing your lips together. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You won. That should be enough. But the ache in your chest says otherwise.

The sun is dipping lower in the sky, staining the clouds gold and pink as practice stretches into the evening. The scrimmage has turned playful, full of taunts and laughter, the kind of session where the intensity is still there but the pressure isn’t crushing. It’s just fun… until it isn’t.

You’re dribbling down the pitch, slipping past defenders with ease, the ball glued to your foot. Someone shouts your name in warning, but it’s too late. A tackle comes in hard, way too aggressive for practice. There’s no time to react, no time to brace yourself.

You go down, and the impact rattles through your body, but the second you hit the ground, you know something is wrong. Pain explodes up your arm, sharp and immediate, radiating from your wrist.

You don’t scream, but you let out a harsh, shaky breath, cradling your wrist to your chest as you try to push yourself up only to be met with a wave of nausea as pain tears through your arm again.

“Shit, Azulita—”

“Is she okay?”

“Someone get the trainer!”

Voices swarm around you, overlapping, frantic. The player who tackled you hovers nearby, looking guilty as hell.

Your coach is there in an instant, crouching beside you. “Where’s the pain?”

You try to shrug it off, but even moving your shoulder makes your wrist throb. “Wrist.” Your voice comes out strained.

Someone helps you up carefully, supporting your arm as they guide you toward the sideline. The trainer takes one look and mutters, “We need to get her to the hospital.”

“No,” you fiercely shake your head, “No hospital please.”

“Ríos do not give me that bull today.” Your coach says in rebuttal. “You are going to the hospital. That is that. Am I clear?”

Your eyes start to water but the tears never fall. “Yes, Coach.”

The ride to the hospital is a blur of pain, muted voices, and the occasional bump in the road that makes you wince. Your teammates on the phone try to keep the mood light, cracking jokes, promising to cover your cast in the ugliest drawings possible.

But underneath it all, a weight is pressing down on you.

Hospitals mean paperwork. Paperwork means parents.

You barely process the check-in, the way the nurses poke and prod at your wrist, asking questions, nodding at your answers until suddenly, everything halts.

“Alright,” one of the nurses says, flipping through the forms, “we just need to get a hold of your parents for consent.”

Your stomach drops. They dial the number you gave them. You already know what’s coming. The phone rings. And rings. And rings. Voicemail.

Frowning, the nurse glances up. “Do you have another guardian? A relative we can contact?”

You shake your head, quickly, instinctively, throat tight.

She tries again. Nothing.

“Sweetheart,” she says, softer now, “we can’t give you anything for the pain, and we can’t proceed until we get parental consent.”

The room closes in. Your teammates shift awkwardly, not sure what to say. The nurses murmur to each other. You stare at the floor, fingers tightening around the hem of your jersey, afraid to move, afraid to speak.

You could lie. Say they’re out of town. Say their phones died. Say something, anything. But the truth is pressing against your ribs, clawing up your throat. You don’t know where your parents are.

The minutes stretch long. Nurses come and go, but you refuse to meet their eyes, refuse to say anything. If they figure it out, if they realize you don’t have anyone, what happens next?

Then, a new nurse kneels beside you. She doesn’t push. Doesn’t demand answers. She just speaks, voice steady, familiar in a way you can’t place at first.

“You remind me of my little sister,” she says casually, watching you carefully.

You glance at her. The way she talks, the tone, the firmness, the care, it reminds you of Olga. Your throat tightens.

You don’t mean to say it. You don’t even realize the words are leaving your mouth until they’re already out, quiet and unsteady. “I haven’t seen or heard from my parents in months.”

The air shifts. The nurse straightens. Someone steps out of the room. The mood changes instantly. Your heart pounds. You shouldn’t have said anything. Now, everything is about to spiral.

Olga groaned as the sharp buzzing of her phone cut through the quiet of the bedroom. She shifted slightly, trying to ignore it, but the vibration continued, insistent.

Alexia, half-asleep, only tightened her arms around Olga’s waist, murmuring something incoherent against her shoulder.

Olga exhaled, debating ignoring the call altogether, but something about it felt urgent. Carefully, she pried Alexia’s arm away just enough to reach for the phone on the nightstand, squinting at the unfamiliar number flashing across the screen.

Her stomach twisted. Calls in the middle of the night were never good.

Reluctantly, she swiped to answer. “Hello?”

A brief pause. Then, a voice, calm, professional, but carrying a weight that immediately set Olga on edge.

“Is this Olga Ríos?”

“Yes.” She sat up slightly, rubbing at her face. “Who is this?”

“My name is Linda Perez, and I’m a social worker with Los Angeles County.”

Olga frowned, now fully awake. “Okay… what is this about?”

There was another pause, this one heavier.

“It’s about your sister.”

Olga went still.

“She suffered an injury earlier this evening during soccer practice at Willow Canyon Academy. She was taken to the hospital, but they were unable to reach either of her parents for consent to treat her injury. After further investigation, it became clear that your sister has been living without proper parental supervision for several months now.”

Olga’s breath caught in her throat. “Wait—what?”

The social worker continued, voice measured, but Olga could hear the underlying concern. “From what we’ve gathered, neither her father nor mother have been home for quite some time. Their numbers are disconnected or going straight to voicemail. She has no legal guardian available to authorize medical care or provide support.”

Olga felt like the room was tilting. She ran a hand through her hair, trying to process. “You’re telling me she’s been on her own?”

“Yes,” Linda confirmed. “And given the circumstances, her parents are now considered unfit. Without an immediate guardian stepping in, she will be placed into the system as a ward of the state.”

Olga’s stomach dropped. “She’s just a kid,” she said, voice tight, gripping the phone harder. “You can’t—”

“That’s why we’re calling you.” Linda’s tone softened. “You are her closest living relative. If you are willing, you can assume temporary guardianship. However, this is a serious commitment. You would need to take responsibility for her well-being, provide a stable home, and ensure she receives proper care.”

Olga didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll take her.”

Alexia, now sitting up beside her, stiffened at the urgency in her voice. Olga barely noticed, too focused on the conversation.

“Are you sure?” Linda asked. “This isn’t a decision to make lightly.”

“She’s my sister.” Olga was already kicking the sheets off, reaching for the nearest hoodie. “I’ll be on the next flight out.”

“Understood.” Linda hesitated. “Before you go— her injury. It’s her wrist. The doctors believe it’s sprained, possibly fractured. She needs surgery, but without parental consent, they can’t proceed.”

Olga clenched her jaw. “I give consent. Do whatever she needs.”

“I’ll let them know.”

The call ended, but Olga was already moving.

She threw open the closet, yanking out clothes, stuffing them into a suitcase with no real sense of order. Her hands were shaking. How did this happen? How did she not know?

Alexia grabbed her wrist, stopping her frantic movements. “Olga.”

“I should’ve known.” Olga shook her head, running a hand down her face. “She never said anything. I talked to her. I checked in. She never once told me she was—” Her voice caught.

Alexia squeezed her wrist. “You didn’t know.”

“I should have,” Olga snapped, then immediately winced at her own tone. She inhaled sharply. “She’s just a kid, Ale. She’s been alone for months. No parents, no one looking after her and I didn’t know. I should have known! Our dad has always been like this.”

Guilt burned in her chest. She thought back to every conversation, every time she’d asked, How are you? and got a casual, I’m fine in response.

Alexia’s grip on her tightened. “You are a good sister,” she said firmly. “You care. You’re doing the right thing now.”

Olga exhaled shakily, nodding. Alexia let go, only to start folding the clothes Olga had thrown into the suitcase.

“I’ll help you pack,” Alexia said.

Olga blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“I’m coming.”

“You don’t—”

Alexia shot her a look. “Olga.”

Olga swallowed. The tension in her shoulders loosened slightly.

“Okay,” she murmured.

Alexia nodded, zipping up her own bag. “Then let’s go get your sister.”

The last time you saw Olga in person, you were twelve years old. She had come to visit for a month, and for the first time, you felt like you had a real family member, someone who truly cared, someone who loved you. You clung to every moment, every second of that summer, storing them away like treasures, hoping they would last.

Now, sitting in your social worker’s office, your leg bounces a mile a minute. Your fingers dig into the sleeves of your hoodie as you try to steady yourself, but your mind is racing. What if this doesn’t work out? What if she doesn’t want you? What if she sees you now and regrets coming?

The door swings open and Olga barely hesitates before crossing the room in quick strides. The moment she reaches you, her arms wrap around you tightly, pulling you in like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go. You tense for half a second then melt into the embrace.

She smells the same, like citrus and something faintly floral. You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your face into her shoulder, and for the first time in months, you feel something close to safe.

She pulls back, hands still gripping your shoulders, and really looks at you. Her eyes widen slightly as she takes you in.

“You’re so—” Her voice catches, and she shakes her head. “Dios, has crecido tanto.” (God, you have grown so much.)

And you have. You’re nearly the same height as her now— maybe even taller. Your hair is longer, the tips dyed blonde. There are more piercings in your ears, and a small gold hoop gleams from your nose. Olga swallows hard. Her eyes are glassy, but she blinks quickly, shaking off the emotion.

Behind her, Alexia is speaking in low tones with your social worker, nodding as she listens. The woman slides a stack of paperwork across the desk, and Alexia flips through it, occasionally handing something to Olga to sign. It all feels so surreal.

Before you know it, you’re walking out of the office, bags in hand, stepping into the cool evening air. Alexia unlocks the car, sliding into the driver’s seat, while you and Olga settle in the back.

The drive is quiet.

You stare out the window, arms crossed, fingers tapping against your knee. The weight of everything sits heavy in your chest. Olga is here. You’re leaving your home, your LA. It’s happening so fast, and you don’t know how to process it.

Olga shifts beside you, then clears her throat.

“So…” she starts, trying to keep her tone light. “How’s school?”

“Fine.”

“Any favorite classes?”

A shrug. “Spanish.”

She exhales through her nose, tilting her head slightly. “Okay… uh, football? Are you still playing with Legends?”

You nod, still staring out the window. “Well, not anymore.”

Olga rubs her hands against her jeans, glancing at Alexia in the rearview mirror. Alexia gives her a small look that says, Give her time.

But patience has never been Olga’s strong suit. “Zulita,” she tries again. “I know this is a lot, but—“

“I didn’t ask you to come.”

It comes out sharp. Too sharp. You see Olga’s jaw tighten slightly.

“You needed someone to come,” she says, voice edged with frustration.

“I was doing fine.”

“Fine?” Olga scoffs. “Zulita, you were in the hospital alone. You had no one looking after you.”

“I was handling it.”

“No, you weren’t!” Her voice rises slightly, exasperation creeping in. “You’re fifteen! You shouldn’t have to handle it!”

The words hit something raw inside you. The frustration, the helplessness, the months of being on your own, of convincing yourself you were fine—it all bubbles up too fast.

“Well, I did!” you snap. “Because I didn’t have a choice! Because no one else was there!”

The car goes silent. Olga stares at you, her expression shifting from anger to something softer. Something sad. And then, she remembers.

She remembers the way you used to be as a kid— how you would lash out when things got too overwhelming, how your emotions always felt too big for your body, how you would snap and yell because it was the only way you knew how to feel heard.

She exhales, rubbing a hand over her face. “I’m sorry,” she says, voice quieter. “I didn’t mean to yell.”

You glare out the window, arms still crossed, but the anger is already fading into something closer to exhaustion.

You shift uncomfortably. “…Yeah. Me too.”

She huffs a small laugh, shaking her head. “You’re still so hot-headed, Zulita.”

You glance at her out of the corner of your eye, lips twitching just slightly. “Takes one to know one.”

Olga snorts, nudging your knee with hers.

Alexia just smiles from the front seat, shaking her head as she drives.

Spain doesn’t feel like home. You only vaguely remember it— small flashes from the two times your dad brought you to visit Olga. The streets, the language, the way the air smelled different. But those were just trips. You were always going back to LA. Now, you’re here. Permanently. And you hate it.

The Spanish is different. The people are different. The food is different. Everything is different.

Your emotions are a tangled mess, a constant weight in your chest that you can’t shake. You don’t know how to deal with it, don’t know how to explain it, and the one thing that’s always helped, football, has been ripped away from you. You haven’t played since you landed a week ago.

Olga is smothering you. She means well, but it’s too much. She hovers, questions everything, watches your every move like you’re some fragile thing that might shatter at any second.

Alexia is different. She gives you space. She doesn’t treat you like a kid. She sees you not just some troubled teenager Olga suddenly has to take care of, but a person trying to survive in a world that doesn’t feel like theirs. She doesn’t push, just waits.

But none of that stops everything from boiling over.

You never meant to revert to your old ways. The one good thing about Spain was the fact that you had a chance at a fresh start.

But, as you’re sitting at lunch, music blasting in your headphones, trying to block everything out. Trying to breathe, you see it.

A younger kid, probably first-year, backed against a wall, shoulders hunched, eyes darting around like a trapped animal. A taller guy standing in front of him, sneering, shoving his shoulder. Words are exchanged, but you can’t hear them.

What you can see is the way the younger boy’s hands shake, the way he flinches when the older one steps closer.

And suddenly, your body moves before your brain does.

You’re up. Across the cafeteria. Pulling the guy away from the kid.

“What the fuck is your problem?” you snap.

The older guy sneers at you. “Who the hell are you, weirdo?”

You don’t think. You react. Shoving. Yelling. Someone grabs your arm, but you shake them off. A fist swings, and suddenly, you’re in it.

Then there are teachers. Hands pulling you back. Your heart pounding.

Before you even register what happened, you’re sitting in the principal’s office, hands balled into fists, jaw locked.

The secretary dials a number. You hear them say Olga’s name.

You shut your eyes and brace yourself. The car ride home is brutal.

“What the hell were you thinking? Do you know how serious this is? You just got here, and you’re already getting into fights? You’re lucky they didn’t expel you! Dios mío, do you know how hard it was to convince them not to suspend you? This is a top school, Azulita!”

You don’t answer. You stare out the window, jaw clenched, fingers digging into your uniform. You take a deep breath and bite your tongue.

Alexia is quiet for the most part, watching you through the rearview mirror.

Then she asks, voice calm, “Did they provoke you?”

You glance at her, hesitating. “…Yeah.”

“Were they hurting someone?”

Your throat tightens, but you nod.

Alexia hums but doesn’t say anything else.

Olga, on the other hand, is still going. Your breaths get more labored, “Olga. Please drop it for now.”

When you pull into the driveway, you don’t wait. You’re out of the car before it fully stops, slamming the door behind you and stalking inside.

Olga moves to follow, but Alexia stops her with a hand on her arm.

“Let her breathe,” she says.

Olga exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair. “She can’t just go around hitting people, Alexia!”

“I know,” Alexia says evenly. “But from what the principal said, and what she just said, she wasn’t fighting for no reason. She was standing up for someone.”

Olga’s shoulders drop slightly.

Alexia gives her a look. “You know better than anyone how she is. She doesn’t just get angry— she reacts. She’s been through a lot. You have to meet her halfway.”

Olga presses her lips together, sighing. “…Yeah. You’re right.”

She takes a deep breath, steadies herself, and heads upstairs to your room.

She knocks. No response.

She knocks again. “Zulita, can we talk?” Silence. Something feels wrong.

She pushes the door open to be met with an empty bed. The window is open. Your phone is on the nightstand. Panic slams into her chest.

“Alexia!”

Alexia calms her down—barely.

“We’ll find her,” she promises, already dialing a number.

The call connects.

“Lucy,” Alexia says, straight to the point. “We need your help.”

It takes a few hours, but they find you. A park, thirty minutes away. A small, empty field. You’re there, by yourself, shooting goal after goal. You don’t even turn when they approach.

Alexia watches as you line up another shot, striking the ball perfectly into the top corner. It’s instinct. You don’t even think, don’t hesitate. Your body just knows what to do.

She and Lucy exchange a look.

Alexia steps forward. “You scared Olga half to death, you know.”

You exhale, resting your hands on your hips. “I needed to clear my head.”

“So you left your phone and ran off?”

“I didn’t think you’d care,” you mumble.

Alexia frowns. “Of course we care.”

You sigh, rolling the ball under your foot. “I just—everything is too much. It’s too different. Spain is different.”

Alexia doesn’t push. She just listens. You stand there, staring at the ball as you line up your next shot, feeling the weight of everything that’s been building up inside you. The silence between you and Alexia stretches, and for the first time, you feel like you can let it out. Let her see the truth of how hard this has been for you. The truth of what you’ve been holding in for so long.

“I’m not used to this,” you say, your voice low but steady, breaking the silence. “It’s… it’s hard, you know? Everything back home just… made sense.”

Alexia’s eyes are focused on you, not speaking, just letting you continue.

You exhale deeply, trying to find the right words. “Back in LA, everything was… routine. It wasn’t easy, but it was my life. You know? I didn’t need to think about it. The corner store, Mr. García, that old man who ran it—he gave me free snacks if I swept the floors for him.”

You let out a shaky breath, trying to hold back the emotion that threatens to spill. “He wasn’t rich, wasn’t some big store owner or anything. He was just an old man who liked to help out kids like me. And I did what I had to do. I didn’t complain about it because it meant I got to eat something I didn’t have to pay for. And I felt good doing it. Like, that was a part of me.”

Alexia’s eyes soften as she listens, and you shift uncomfortably, but keep going.

“There was also Mrs. Alvarez, the seamstress who lived down the block. She used to fix my clothes when they tore or when I just couldn’t afford new ones. She’d take the time to patch them up, make them look good as new. And she’d always say, ‘I’ve got your back, mija.’ Even when I couldn’t pay her. She’d make me new stuff too, just out of kindness.”

You pause, feeling the lump in your throat grow.

“And the grocery store? They’d let me stock the juice shelves for an hour or two, and in exchange, they’d give me a bag of groceries. It was the only way I could get some food most times. I mean, I didn’t care, you know? I was just a kid, trying to make it through. But I was making it.”

You stop and look down at the ball, trying to steady your breathing. “Everything back home was like that. A hustle, yeah, but a hustle I understood. It wasn’t perfect, but it made sense. People helped each other out, and you helped them back. I knew how to survive.”

You look at Alexia now, feeling the weight of your confession. “I got a scholarship, you know? A football scholarship to the best program in LA. And it wasn’t handed to me. I worked my ass off to get there. I had to claw my way in, beat out all the other kids who had better coaches, better gear, better everything. But I fought for it. I did it alone. No one helped me get there. It was just me, and I… I made it.”

You can feel the emotion building, the frustration, the anger, the sadness, all of it hitting you at once. “And now, I’m here. And I don’t know how to make it make sense. I don’t know how to fit in. Spain is nothing like LA. The Spanish is different. The people are different. And I feel like I’m… just lost. Like I don’t belong here.”

Alexia doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t offer advice or try to fix things. She just nods, listening, letting you spill everything.

“I didn’t know how to handle that. I didn’t know how to adjust. And yeah, I know it sounds stupid, but…” You clench your jaw, fighting the tears that are threatening to come. “It’s hard to start over. I didn’t think I’d have to do this again.”

Alexia stays silent for a long moment, letting you talk through everything. Then, when you’re done, she finally speaks.

“You’re right,” she says softly. “I can’t imagine how you’re feeling, Zulita. I’ve been in Barcelona my whole life, so this—what you’re going through—this isn’t something I understand. But I can understand that it’s hard.”

You nod, your chest heavy. “I don’t want to be ungrateful. I know this is an opportunity. But it just feels like I’m starting over in a place that isn’t mine. A place that isn’t home.”

Alexia smiles softly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to figure it out all at once. You’re allowed to feel frustrated, to miss home. You’re allowed to take time to adjust.”

You look up at her, feeling a little lighter, a little more seen. “Thanks,” you say quietly.

Alexia’s gaze softens as she watches you, clearly understanding. “But there’s something you need to do. You need to talk to Olga about this. It’s the first step in the right direction, okay?”

You’re quiet for a moment, considering it. You know she’s right, but it still feels hard. Still feels like you’re betraying everything you built back in LA. But Alexia’s words make sense.

And when you finally nod, Alexia adds, “Talking to her is the first step, but we’ll get through this together. All of us. We’ll figure it out, I promise.”

You take a breath and look back at the goal, focusing on the ball again. The frustration, the anger, the confusion—it’s still there, simmering. But for the first time since you got to Spain, you feel like maybe, just maybe, you can start figuring this out.

Maybe you can make this work, too. You sigh, staring down at the ball. “…She treats me like a kid.”

“She treats you like someone she loves,” Alexia corrects gently.

You chew on your lip, kicking the ball toward the goal again. It soars into the net.

Alexia and Lucy exchange another look.

Alexia smirks. “We’re gonna have to get you on a team soon.”

(I hate the fact that in english everything sounds drier. The translator takes away all the flavor)

○ alexia putellas x teen reader (reader has a name in this)

↳ warnings: no warnings.

pt. 1

A LITTLE HOT-HEADED

The Barça B dressing room had that unmistakable sound of every training session: the dull thud of boots hitting the floor, the rustle of jerseys being hastily changed, the constant murmur of overlapping conversations. Some players laughed, others debated plays, and a few simply changed in silence.

Maya was in the second category. The silent one.

Sitting on the wooden bench in front of her locker, she slowly untied the laces of her boots, letting the sound of the loosening leather fill her head instead of everything else. Her jaw was tight. Lately, it had been like that almost all the time.

Because things at home weren’t going well. Because she wasn’t sleeping well. Because she was sick of hearing the same thing over and over again.

"It’s just ridiculous," Nuria Gómez’s voice cut through the general noise, clear as day. "She hooked up with him for one night, and now she acts like he doesn’t exist. Not a glance, not a ‘how are you.’ Nothing."

Maya didn’t lift her head, but her fingers tightened around the leather of her boots.

She knew exactly who Nuria was talking about. She knew who all that venom was meant for every time she opened her damn mouth.

It was for Helena.

Helena Ferrer, who was at the other end of the locker room, her back turned, stuffing her things into her backpack with too much concentration. Maya knew that gesture. That one that said, I’m pretending not to hear, but every word is scraping against my skin.

And Nuria, of course, knew it too. She knew it and wouldn’t stop.

"I don’t know, I couldn’t live with a clear conscience after doing something like that," she went on, letting out a nasal laugh that turned Maya’s stomach. "Playing with someone and then acting like it never happened. That’s just being a shitty person."

Maya closed her eyes for a second.

Breathe. It’s not your problem.

But that was a lie. Because she heard it every single day. Because Helena never defended herself. And because Nuria wasn’t talking out of some sense of justice or wounded pride. She was talking out of spite.

Maya unclenched her jaw just to grit her teeth even harder.

"Don’t you ever get tired?"

She didn’t say it loudly. She didn’t yell. But the locker room wasn’t that big. And Maya never had to raise her voice to be heard.

The murmur of conversation died down. Not completely, but enough for her to feel several people paying attention. Nuria stilled for a moment. Then she turned toward her with a forced smile, the kind that barely covered the thinly veiled hostility underneath.

"Excuse me?"

Maya took her time straightening up and closing her locker before turning to look at her. Her gaze was calm, but there was something dangerous flickering in her eyes.

"I asked if you don’t get tired," she repeated, her voice low but clear. "Of saying the same shit every day."

Nuria narrowed her eyes, as if she couldn’t believe Maya was getting involved in this. "I didn’t know you had to approve my conversations now."

"I don’t care about your conversations," Maya replied, tilting her head slightly. "I care that you’ve been repeating the same thing for weeks, and honestly? It’s getting old."

Nuria let out a laugh, but there was no amusement in it.

"Right. Because defending Ferrer is your new favorite hobby, isn’t it?"

Maya felt Helena shift uncomfortably to her right, but she didn’t look at her.

"I don’t need to defend her. She didn’t do anything wrong."

"Oh, really? Nothing wrong?" Nuria crossed her arms, leaning forward slightly. "You’d be okay with someone using you for a one-night stand and then acting like you don’t exist? Just like that?"

There it was.

Maya sighed.

"This isn’t about what I would or wouldn’t do."

"Oh, it’s not?"

"No. This is about the fact that you keep bringing it up every chance you get, like you can’t let it go."

The locker room was almost completely silent now. Just the sound of a few bags zipping up, the distant echo of water running in the showers.

Nuria smiled without humor.

"I don’t know why you’re getting involved in this, Maya."

"Because it disgusts me." Maya didn’t blink. "It disgusts me to watch you walk around here, looking for her, waiting for an excuse to throw some snide remark her way. Like a damn dog."

Nuria’s face darkened, her hands clenching into fists.

"Eres una gilipollas."

"Y tú una resentida."

Silence.

Helena let out an almost imperceptible breath.

Maya ran a hand through her hair, not taking her eyes off Nuria.

"You hooked up. It didn’t work. Anyone else would move on. But you, Nuria…"

She took a step forward, just one, enough to lower her voice and make it sharper.

"You have to tear her down every single day because you can’t stand the fact that she used you for one night and never looked back."

The tension in the air was thick, almost suffocating. Nuria’s face was flushed red, but she had no words.

Maya leaned in slightly, her gaze unwavering.

"And if it weren’t for the trouble I’d get into, I’d smash your head against the wall."

Helena let out a breath. Not a gasp, not a 'Maya, stop'. A fucking breath. Like those words had been the only real shield anyone had given her in weeks.

Nuria said nothing.

She couldn’t say anything.

The entire locker room had frozen. No one moved, no one dared to step in.

Maya waited. She gave Nuria the space to respond, to say whatever she wanted. But she didn’t. So Maya shrugged, slung her backpack over her shoulder with the same usual calm.

Then she turned, not bothering to look at anyone else, and walked toward the door.

She left unhurriedly.

The door clicked shut behind her.

And for the first time in a long time, the dressing room was left in complete silence.

🫛🫛🫛

The hallway smelled of liniment and damp grass, filled with that muffled echo of footsteps and murmurs that only lingered after training sessions—when the team was scattered between showers, massages, and unexpected meetings. Maya walked with her jaw clenched, hands shoved into the pockets of her hoodie, and the distinct feeling that this meeting wasn’t going to bring her anything good.

She wasn’t entirely sure why she had been called in. Or maybe she was. The incident with Nuria in the locker room had been too public for it not to reach the coach’s ears.

She stopped in front of the office door and took a deep breath. Counted to three. Knocked twice with her knuckles before pushing the door open without waiting for a response.

The coach was sitting behind his desk, arms crossed, with an expression that didn’t foreshadow anything good. But it was the person sitting to his right that made her frown for a second.

Alexia Putellas.

Maya controlled her reaction. Just the slightest raise of her eyebrows before her face settled back into its usual neutral expression. Don’t get paranoid. Maybe Alexia was just there for something unrelated, maybe they had just finished discussing something before she arrived. Or maybe—and she liked this possibility less—it was about her.

She closed the door calmly and leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, as if she were anywhere else and not in an office about to get a lecture.

"If this is about what happened with Nuria the other day," she said before anyone could speak, "I was just following the message you always give us: ‘personal issues don’t mix with football.’"

Silence.

The coach frowned.

"Excuse me?"

Maya didn’t move. Something didn’t add up.

"I had no idea anything happened with Nuria," he continued, looking at her with more interest than she liked. "But now I do want to know."

Shit.

Maya rolled her eyes. In trouble for talking too much.

"It was nothing," she shrugged. "Stupid stuff. Dumb teenage drama, you know."

The coach held her gaze for a moment longer but didn’t press. He just ran a hand over his chin and got straight to the point.

"I called you in because of what happened with the Espanyol player."

Her body tensed instantly.

"Alexia told me what happened."

Maya clenched her jaw. And there it was. She knew it. Her mind went straight to the most obvious conclusion.

Great. Not only did I get a red card during the match, but now they think I was going to start a fight afterward.

She straightened up slightly, arms still crossed.

"Nothing happened," she said flatly. "I didn’t hit her, if that’s what you’re thinking."

Alexia lifted her gaze, looking at her with the same calm she had when analyzing the field before making a decisive pass.

"No one said you hit her."

Maya turned toward her.

"Oh no?" She tilted her head, skeptical. "Then what exactly did you tell the coach?"

Alexia remained relaxed, unbothered.

"I told him about the lack of control you showed during the match," she explained evenly. "About how the Espanyol player was provoking you the entire time and how you reacted."

A prick of discomfort settled in Maya’s chest. She didn’t like being analyzed like that.

"Oh, right. She provoked me, I reacted, and somehow I’m the bad guy."

"No one said you’re the bad guy," the coach interjected. "But you do have a problem."

Maya scoffed.

"My problem is that I don’t let people walk all over me?"

The coach narrowed his eyes, resting his elbows on the desk.

"Your problem is that you let yourself get taken out of the game over nothing."

Maya averted her gaze, biting her tongue to keep from saying the first thing that came to mind.

"Do you think you reacted the right way?" he pressed.

"If the referee isn’t going to do his job, someone has to."

The coach let out a long sigh, as if he were exhausted from having the same conversation over and over again.

"Maya…" He ran a hand down his face. "In football, there are provocations all the time. If every time someone messes with you, you respond with a foul like that, you’re going to get sent off in every match."

Before she could reply, Alexia spoke up.

"If you let them get you out of the game with provocations, you’re giving them exactly what they want."

That comment irritated her more than it should have.

"I didn’t let them take me out of the game. They took me out of the game." She paused. "Which is different."

"It’s not," Alexia countered, still infuriatingly calm. "Porque si cada vez que te tocan un poco los cojones, pierdes la cabeza, entonces te van a manejar como quieran." (Because if every time they push your buttons, you lose your head, then they can control you however they want)

Maya frowned.

She didn’t like how that sounded. Like she was some animal that could be controlled with a few cheap tricks. Like she didn’t have self-control.

But most of all, she didn’t like it because there was some truth to it.

The coach watched her patiently, waiting.

"Do you understand?"

Maya stayed quiet for a moment before answering, her tone clipped.

"Yes."

The coach nodded, though he didn’t look entirely convinced.

"I hope I don’t have to bring this up with you again."

Maya didn’t respond. She simply turned and left the office with the same calm as always, no rush, no sign of anything. But the moment the door shut behind her, she felt something strange in her chest. A part of her was still angry. Angry that they had treated her like she didn’t know what she was doing. But another part, one she preferred to ignore, knew that Alexia and the coach were right.

And that pissed her off even more.

🫛🫛🫛

The night air was cool, but Maya felt like she was burning under her skin. She walked with long, quick strides, her jaw clenched, her backpack slung over one shoulder. As if each step could help her leave behind the coach’s office, the damn conversation, and, most of all, that patient voice of Alexia Putellas repeating things she already knew but didn’t want to hear.

Football was about provocation, sure. Football was about keeping a cool head, too. Pero que no jodan. (But give me a break)

As she stepped past the club’s entrance, her eyes landed on the bus stop across the street. At this hour, the night buses took forever, and the last thing she wanted was to sit around doing nothing, letting her mind spiral over the same thoughts.

She took a deep breath and adjusted the strap of her backpack. Maybe she could walk to the next stop. Maybe that would get rid of this burning feeling in her chest.

Then, a car horn.

Maya frowned, irritated by the sudden noise, and turned her head, ready to ignore it. But she recognized the car before she could.

A black Audi. And behind the wheel, Alexia Putellas.

The passenger-side window lowered with a smooth hum, and Alexia’s voice, calm as always, cut through the night.

"Get in. I’ll take you."

Her first reaction was automatic: say no.

Because she didn’t like being told what to do. Because she still had her pride stuck in her throat after that conversation. And because, honestly, she wasn’t in the mood to spend more time with Alexia.

She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow.

"I’m fine. I don’t need a ride."

Alexia didn’t react. She didn’t look surprised or impatient. She just tilted her head slightly and repeated,

"Maya."

Just her name. Said in that low, steady tone—not quite a command, but not a request either.

And Maya, for some damn reason, didn’t have the energy to keep refusing.

She huffed through her nose and muttered something unintelligible as she stepped toward the car. She pulled open the passenger door and dropped into the seat unceremoniously, shutting the door with more force than necessary.

She didn’t say thank you.

Alexia didn’t seem to expect it.

The engine purred quietly, the only sound in the car besides the distant murmur of nighttime traffic.

Maya stared out the window, arms crossed, her gaze lost in the city lights flashing past. The silence was so thick it was becoming uncomfortable. Suddenly, she was aware of her own breathing. Of every small movement. Of how unnervingly calm the car felt even if her head was hell.

She didn’t dare move a muscle, wondering if Alexia felt the awkwardness too—or if she was just immune to it.

Then, Alexia’s voice broke the silence.

"So, you like smashing heads against walls, huh?"

Maya blinked.

What?

Her first reaction was pure internal panic.

How the hell does she know?

Worse: Did she tell the coach?

She turned toward Alexia, her back suddenly tense.

"Who told you that?"

Alexia kept her eyes on the road, only shrugging slightly. "Vicky told me."

Maya exhaled, rolling her eyes.

Of course.

If there was anyone who knew everything that happened in Barça B, it was Vicky López. And if there was anyone she shared it with, it was Alexia. Ever since she started training with the first team, their relationship had become inseparable. Fans even called them “mother and daughter.”

Maya pressed her lips together, uncomfortable.

"I wasn’t actually going to do it. I just said it."

"Sure."

Alexia smiled slightly, not even looking at her, as if she didn’t believe her for a second.

Maya sighed and slumped further into the seat, annoyed. "Did you pick me up just to give me a lecture on anger management?"

"No," Alexia replied casually. "But if you want me to, I can."

Maya turned to her, half incredulous, half exasperated.

"I’ll pass."

A brief silence settled between them. But this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable.

Maya noticed the atmosphere had shifted. Less tense. Less hostile. And though she didn’t want to admit it, Alexia’s attitude—calm, not pushing her, not lecturing her—was making her anger simmer down.

They reached her building a few minutes later. Alexia pulled up in front of the entrance without a word, simply letting the engine shut off smoothly.

Maya unbuckled her seatbelt and, without looking at her, muttered quickly, "Thanks for the ride." Like it physically hurt to say it.

Alexia didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was steady. "See you, Maya."

Maya gave a small nod and got out of the car without another word.

She closed the door with less force this time.

🤙🏼⚽️

Football lesson

Alexia Putellas x reader

Word count: Around 3,5k

Warning: none, just pure fluff

Note: For the anon who requested something fluffy. Also inspired by that cute video of Leah teaching her girlfriend how to play football.

For weeks, Alexia had been asking you, almost begging you, to come with her and learn how to play football.

Each time she suggested it, you’d smile softly and shake your head, politely turning down her request. Football just wasn’t your thing, and honestly, you had little interest in it—well, except when it involved watching Alexia play.

The sport was foreign to you, and you preferred your weekends curled up on the couch with a good book, or experimenting with new recipes in the kitchen than playing football.

But Alexia—sweet, determined Alexia—had a way of wearing you down. Her soft, pleading eyes seemed to penetrate deep into your soul, and with every conversation, you could see how much she wanted you to be a part of her world.

““Just one session, cariño. It’ll be fun!” she’d say, but each time, you kindly turned her down.

Until one evening, when she caught you right in the middle of making dinner.

You were chopping vegetables, humming along to the music playing in the background, when Alexia’s arms suddenly snaked around your waist, pulling you close to her.

The warmth of her body pressed against your back made you smile involuntarily.

“Mi amor” she murmured softly, her breath warm against your neck. “If you come play football with me, I’ll do the cooking for a whole month”

“Nice try. That’s not enough to get me out on that pitch” You chuckled, not even looking up from the cutting board.

Alexia wasn’t discouraged. You felt her lips brush against the back of your ear as she continued, “Y la lavandería. Haré toda la lavandería. Y masajes. Todas las noches. Solo para que vengas conmigo y me dejes enseñarte un poco de fútbol” (And the laundry. I’ll do all the laundry. And massages. Every single night. Just to have you come with me and let me teach you a little football)

You couldn’t help but laugh out loud at her persistence. She knew exactly how to play to your weaknesses. The idea of her giving you massages every night for a whole month was tempting. Really tempting. But despite how much you adored her, you still declined.

“Tempting” you said, still smiling as you diced the tomatoes. “But still not enough”

But then, she gently turned you around, and there it was. Those soft, pleading eyes. Her expression was so sincere, so full of warmth and love.

She cupped your face gently, her fingers brushing the sides of your cheeks.

“Por favor, solo una vez, por mí…” She pleaded, letting out a quiet sigh, her voice soft. (Please, just once, for me…)

You sighed in mock frustration, knowing already that you were giving in. You’d given in countless times before, no matter the issue, and it was always the same with Alexia—she had this amazing way of making you do things.

“Okay, fine” you finally relented, unable to resist her charm any longer. “I’ll do it. But you’re still doing the cooking, laundry, and I still expect those massages”

Her face lit up instantly, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Without missing a beat, she scooped you up into her arms, lifting you off the ground with an infectious burst of laughter. You couldn’t help but giggle at her excitement.

When she finally set you down, she pulled you into a kiss—deep, tender, and full of excitement. Her lips were soft against yours, and you could feel her joy radiating through the kiss.

“¡Gracias, amor! No te arrepentirás” she whispered, her voice warm and affectionate as she cupped your cheeks, her thumbs gently brushing over your skin. (Thank you, my love. You won’t regret it)

——

Two days later, you did regret it—when Alexia woke you up at the crack of dawn.

You were lying in your warm, cozy bed, the sheets tucked around you, and your arms wrapped tightly around one of your many your pillows.

The room was still cloaked in darkness, and the early morning silence was comforting—until you heard the soft sound of footsteps approaching.

Without a word, Alexia slipped into the room, her presence gentle yet undeniable. You felt the bed dip as she sat next to you, and then she did it—she slowly started pulling the blankets away from you, her cool hands brushing against your warm skin.

“Bebé” she whispered, her voice soft and sweet, almost too tender to resist. “Vamos, despierta” (Come on, wake up)

You groaned, barely lifting your head from the pillow, squinting at her through half-lidded eyes. The dark room only made you more aware of how early it was.

“It’s too early” you mumbled thickly, your voice heavy with sleep. “Why are you waking me up?”

“To play football” she said softly, her fingers brushing your hair back. “Dijiste que me dejarías enseñarte, recuerdas?” (You said you’d let me teach you, remember?)

You let out a frustrated sigh and blindly reached for your phone, squinting at the time. When you saw the hour, you groaned louder, throwing your phone down onto the bed with more force than necessary.

“Yeah, I remember” you said, rubbing your eyes, “but it’s 5 AM, Alexia! Let me sleep”

Her laugh filled the room—warm and melodic, but also slightly teasing. “No, no, no” she said, shaking her head with that infuriatingly adorable look in her eyes. “No more sleep, amor. It’s the perfect time to wake up and go play football”

Before you could respond, you felt her lips press a soft, lingering kiss against your forehead. You tried to stay annoyed, but it was hopeless. She always had that effect on you, making it hard to stay mad for long.

You let out a long, exaggerated sigh, knowing you were losing this battle. “Eres mala” you muttered under your breath, but even as the words left your lips, a small smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. (You’re evil)

Alexia chuckled at your remark. “Lo sé, soy tan mala” she teased with a playful grin. She then gave your thigh a light pat before getting up. “Vamos” she added, “te estoy preparando el desayuno” (I know, I’m so evil. Come on, I’m making you breakfast)

You groaned again, the weight of sleep still pulling at you. Slowly, you grabbed a sweatshirt and some leggings, moving lazily, feeling like you were still half in a dream.

You stumbled toward the bathroom, trying to freshen up as quickly as possible, all the while wishing you could just go back to bed.

When you made your way into the kitchen, the smell of freshly brewed coffee, warm toast and eggs filled your senses.

Alexia looked up as you walked in, her smile bright and full of energy—completely the opposite of how you were feeling.

“Te preparé tu desayuno favorito” she said, her voice warm and affectionate as she placed your plate on the kitchen table. “Vamos, come. Tenemos toda una mañana de fútbol por delante” (I made your favorite breakfast. Come on, eat up. We’ve got a whole morning of football ahead of us”

You groaned once more at the idea of spending your morning doing something you had no excitement for, but despite your grumbling, you still sat down.

Noticing your grumpiness, Alexia stepped behind you, gently tilting your head up before leaning down to place a soft kiss on your lips, lingering for a brief moment.

“Lo haré divertido, lo prometo” she whispered softly against your lips, giving them another quick kiss before fully pulling away and sitting beside you. (I’ll make it fun, I promise)

You sighed dramatically, taking a bite of the eggs she had made. They were perfect, as always—just the right amount of seasoning, the texture exactly how you liked them. As much as you wanted to keep complaining, the taste of the eggs made it hard to focus on your grumpiness.

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” you muttered, taking another bite. “Actually, I think I’m already regretting it”

Alexia chuckled, the sound light and teasing. “Maybe” she said, her voice full of playful mischief. “But I’m going to make sure you have fun with me. Me aseguraré de ello” (I’ll make sure of it)

You shot her a sideways look, but the tiny smile on your lips betrayed you. “Yeah, yeah” you muttered under your breath, trying to act as if you weren’t already looking forward to spending time with her—despite everything. “We’ll see about that”

——

After breakfast, you and Alexia stepped outside into the crisp morning air. The cold immediately bit at your skin, making you instinctively pull your coat tighter around yourself. Alexia, however, was unfazed.

Her hand settled gently on the small of your back, guiding you toward the passenger side of her car with a quiet, reassuring touch.

“Come on, cariño” she murmured, her voice soft but full of warmth. “Vamos”

You groaned, staring out the window as Alexia started the car. The sky was still dim, a hint of light creeping in, but it still felt way too early. “This is too early, Alexia” you mumbled more to yourself than to Alexia.

The car ride was silent, the hum of the engine filling the space as you gazed out the window, your exhausted eyes struggling to stay focused, while her fingers gently intertwined with yours on your thigh.

Fifteen minutes later, she parked the car, her smile as bright as ever as she turned to you.

“Aquí estamos” she said, her voice calm yet full of excitement. “¿Listos para empezar?” (Here we are. Ready to get started?)

You rubbed the sleep from your eyes, feeling like you might fall asleep standing up. “I guess so” you replied hesitantly, but your tone softened when she squeezed your hand, giving you a small reassuring smile.

As you both stepped out of the car, you waited for her to grab the bag she had packed earlier from the trunk. She effortlessly slung it over her shoulder and reached out for your hand.

Her fingers intertwined with yours as she guided you to the pitch, the warmth of her touch sending a comforting sensation through you.

“Te prometo que te va a gustar” she whispered, her voice warm and filled with confidence. (I promise you’ll like it)

As you approached the pitch, the cold bit at your skin, causing you to pull your coat tighter around you once more.

Alexia raised an eyebrow “No, no, cariño, take off the coat” she insisted gently. “Vas a calentarte. Confía en mí” (You’re going to warm up. Trust me)

“It’s freezing, Alexia. I’m not taking off my coat”You replied, frowning and glancing at her, unsure.

“Quítatelo, y me aseguraré de que no tengas frío. Ya verás” she said, a playful smile tugging at her lips as she looked at you. (Take it off, and I’ll make sure you won’t be cold. You’ll see)

With a sigh, you hesitantly removed your coat, shooting her a cautious glance. She took it from your hands and casually tossed it over the bag she had placed on the ground moments before.

She smiled, a soft, reassuring grin that made you feel safe. “Come on, let’s stretch first” She said, guiding you toward the center of the pitch.

The first few minutes of warm-up were a struggle. Your muscles felt stiff, and your body still ached for sleep. Alexia was patient with you, running alongside you as you jogged slowly around the pitch, her pace never too fast, always steady and encouraging.

“Eso es!” she cheered with a wide grin as she matched your pace. “You’re doing great, mi amor. Just a little more!”

You felt a warmth inside, not from the exercise, but from being close to her. As you jogged beside her, everything else seemed to fade away.

Once you finished your light warm-up, Alexia reached into her bag, pulling out a water bottle and handing it to you. You took it with a soft smile, grateful for the break.

“Okay! Are we playing football now or what?” You asked with a newfound enthusiasm. Now that the sleepiness was gone and the cold no longer held you captive, you were actually starting to look forward to it.

Alexia let out a soft laugh, clearly amused by your excitement. “Lo estamos, pero primero, vas a necesitar esto” she said, pulling something from her bag with a glint of playfulness in her eyes. (We are, but first, you’re going to need these)

You raised an eyebrow as she show you a pair of boots.

“Uh… baby, I think your boots might be a bit too big for me. We’re not the same size” you said, eyeing them skeptically and assuming those were hers.

Alexia shook her head, her mischievous smile never faltering. “No, no, they’re not mine. They’re for you,” she said, a soft shyness entering her voice. “Los compré solo para ti” (I bought them just for you)

You blinked, your heart swelling in your chest as she shyly handed them over. You couldn’t help but coo at the thoughtful gesture.

Taking the boots and admiring them you noticed your initials embroidered delicately on the side.

“Alexia… you customized them?” you whispered, unable to hide the awe in your voice.

She nodded, her cheeks flushing a little. “Sé que realmente no te gusta el fútbol y probablemente no los uses mucho… pero pensé que tal vez te gustarían” she said softly. “I even picked them in your favorite colors” (I know you don’t really like football and probably won’t wear them much… but I thought maybe you’d like them)

Your heart melted at her thoughtfulness. You stepped forward and kissed her gently, unable to resist the overwhelming warmth bubbling inside you.

“Thank you, my love” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “I love them”

Alexia smiled brightly, her hands settling on your waist, squeezing softly. “I’m glad you like them!” She grinned, then pulled away. “Ahora, póntelos para que podamos jugar” (Now, put them on so we can play)

You slipped them on and they fit perfectly, as if they were made just for you.

You got to your feet and glanced over at Alexia, who was crouched down, pulling on her own boots.

Your smile stretched wide with gratitude. “Thank you” you said again, your voice soft yet overflowing with affection. “These… they’re perfect”

Alexia smiled gently before standing up, walking over to you, and wrapping her arms around your waist, drawing you in.

“Te quiero” she whispered, holding you close and pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Now, let’s play”

And play, you did.

The moment your foot made contact with the ball, everything else disappeared—it was just you, Alexia, and the ball.

Alexia started slow, tapping the ball back and forth between her feet with a casual ease that made it look far too simple.

“Vale, cariño, vamos a ver qué tienes” she teased, gently passing the ball over to you, with a smirk. (Alright, sweetheart, let’s see what you’ve got)

“Prepare to be amazed” You said with a confident smirk, straightening your shoulders, full of determination.

“Estoy lista para ser entretenida” she said with a mocking snort. (I’m ready to be entertained)

Rolling your eyes, you went for the ball, trying to mimic the way she moved. You dribbled forward, tongue poking out slightly in concentration.

The ball wasn’t as smooth under your control as it was under hers, but at least it wasn’t running away from you—yet.

“Okay, not bad” Alexia admitted, jogging beside you. “Pero te ves un poco tensa. Relaja los hombros, muévete con el balón, no lo luches” (But you look a little stiff. Relax your shoulders, move with the ball, don’t fight it)

“I’m relaxed” you said through gritted teeth, focusing hard on keeping the ball close.

“Sure, bebé, you look so relax right now” Alexia hummed in amusement.

You looked up to glare at her, only to realize too late that you’d taken your eyes off the ball—because in that split second, it slipped from your control and rolled right into Alexia’s waiting feet.

“Ay no, ¿Qué pasó?” She grinned teasingly. (what happened?)

“You distracted me!” You groaned in mock frustration, stomping your feet on the ground like a little kid throwing a tantrum.

“Yo?” She placed a hand on her chest, feigning innocence. “I didn’t do anything. That was you”

“You’re evil” you said, glaring at her.

“Vamos, inténtalo de nuevo. Esta vez, concéntrate” She laughed, passing the ball back to you. (Come on, try again. This time, focus)

You huffed, determined not to mess up again. Taking a deep breath, you concentrated on keeping the ball close, trying to copy the way Alexia moved.

This time, you managed to dribble a little better, weaving the ball forward without losing control.

“¡Ahí lo tienes!” Alexia cheered. “Now, let’s see how you handle some pressure” (There you go!)

Before you could process what she meant, she darted in front of you, blocking your path and taking the ball from you.

“Wait, no, I wasn’t ready—” Your eyes went wide as you glanced up at her, caught off guard.

“Defenders don’t wait, bebé” Alexia smirked, giving you back the ball.

“Oh, eres tan molesta” you said rolling your eyes at her. (Oh, you’re so annoying)

She only laughed, waiting for your next move. You tried to fake left before darting right, but Alexia read it too easily, intercepting with the smoothest steal you’d ever seen.

“How are you so good at this?” You groaned dramatically.

“Años de práctica” She twirled the ball between her feet, winking. (Years of practice)

You pouted, but Alexia stepped closer, tilting your chin up with a teasing smile.

“You’re doing good” she admitted, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. “Now, try again”

The morning stretched on with playful challenges, laughter, and an embarrassing number of failed attempts on your part.

Every time you lost the ball, Alexia would flash a grin and steal a quick kiss—a way to soothe your frustration.

But then—it happened.

You weren’t sure if it was luck, sheer determination, or Alexia letting you win (which you’d deny forever if she ever said so), but somehow, you managed to slip past her defense.

The ball was at your feet. The goal was ahead.

This was your moment.

With all the energy left in your body, you lined up the shot, swung your foot back, and—

The ball soared into the net.

You blinked.

“YES!” You threw your hands in the air, running around the pitch like you’d just won the Champions League.

“Did you see that? I scored on Alexia Putellas! ME! Against YOU!” You said excitedly with a side grin on your face.

“Vi, mi amor, vi” Alexia was already laughing, shaking her head. (I saw, my love, I saw)

“I’m a football genius” you declared dramatically. “This is history. Someone call Barça—”

Before you could finish, Alexia lunged forward, wrapping her arms around your waist and effortlessly lifting you off the ground.

“Alexia!” You let out a surprised squeal, instinctively wrapping your arms around her shoulders and your legs around her waist.

“I’m proud of you, mi pequeña futbolista” She spun you in a circle, laughing. (My little footballer)

Your heart swelled at her words, the warmth in her voice making you melt. You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her lips, feeling her smile against yours as you pulled away.

“Even though I just destroyed you?” you teased, grinning.

“Destroyed me?” Alexia smiled, raising an eyebrow as she set you down, though she kept you close, her arms around your waist.

“Completely” you said smugly. “I mean, did you even try to stop me?”

She gasped in mock offense. “Iba con calma contigo” (I was going easy on you)

“Sure, sure. Just admit it—I’m the best” You laughed, holding onto her neck a little tighter.

“The best?” Alexia smirked, pulling you even closer, her grip around your waist tightening.

“Mhm” you grinned, tilting your chin up confidently. “Matter of fact, not only am I the best, but I’m also better than you”

Alexia let out a loud laugh, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Better than me?” she repeated, arching an eyebrow.

“Yep! You heard me, Putellas” you teased, flashing her a smug smile, enjoying the playful challenge.

Alexia hummed, pretending to consider your words before narrowing her eyes mischievously.

“Are you sure about that?” She asked smirking.

That’s when you felt her hands shift ever so slightly, her fingers twitching in anticipation. Your stomach dropped. Oh no. You knew exactly what she was about to do.

“Ale—wait—” You tried to back away, but she was faster.

Her fingers dug into your sides, and a burst of laughter tore from your lips as she tickled you mercilessly.

You thrashed in her arms, trying to escape, but she only held on tighter, her own laughter mixing with yours.

“¿Sigues creyendo que eres mejor que yo?” she taunted, grinning as she kept up the attack. (Still think you’re better than me?)

“NO—OKAY, OKAY!” you yelped between uncontrollable giggles, squirming desperately. “NO, I’M NOT BETTER THAN YOU! YOU’RE THE BEST! THE ABSOLUTE BEST!”

Satisfied, Alexia finally stopped, her hands settling on your waist as she grinned down at you, victorious.

“That’s what I thought, mi amor” she said smugly.

“I really did score, though” You spoke after a moment, once you had finally caught your breath.

“You did” Alexia confirmed.

And just like that, she kissed you—slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that made you forget the cold morning air, the tiredness in your muscles, the rest of the world entirely.

After a while, you both ended up sitting on the grass, nestled between her legs. Your head rested against her shoulder, eyes closed in exhaustion from the session.

Alexia’s head leaned gently against yours, her hands resting on your stomach as she traced soft, soothing patterns.

“Mira el cielo, amor” Alexia’s soft whisper brushed against your ear, her voice gentle and warm. (Look at the sky, love)

You slowly opened your eyes and looked up at the sky. The sun was just rising, painting the sky with shades of yellow, red, and purple. Soft clouds caught the light, adding a gentle glow to the scene. Everything felt calm.

“It’s beautiful” you whispered softly.

Alexia turned her attention back to you “You’re more beautiful”

“That was so cheesy” You laughed, shaking your head, but a blush crept up on your cheeks.

“Y sin embargo, estás sonrojada” Alexia grinned, removing her hand from your stomach and gently brushing your cheek with her fingers. (And yet, you’re blushing)

“No, I’m not,” you replied, gently removing her hand from your cheek.

“Yes, you are” Alexia teased, laughing as she pressed kisses to your cheek, and you couldn’t help but laugh along with her.

“Te quiero, mi amor” She said, finally stopping the kisses on your cheeks and pulling you closer, her arms wrapping around you as she pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

“I love you too” You responded, puckering your lips, silently asking for a kiss, which she gladly gave you.

“But you know who I love more?” You asked, a teasing smile playing on your lips as you pulled away.

“Who?” Alexia asked, narrowing her eyes at you as if to say, “How dare you love anyone more than me?”

“These new boots! They’re so comfy and cute!” you exclaimed, lifting your leg so you both could admire them.

Alexia let out a soft laugh, a smile spreading across her face. “Sabía que te encantarían” (I knew you’d love them)

“Yeah! And it would be such a waste to only wear them once, don’t you think?” You raised an eyebrow playfully, glancing at her.

Alexia tilted her head, her eyes lighting up. “Entonces… ¿quieres jugar más?” (So… you want to play more?)

You shrugged with a teasing smile, not wanting to admit just how much you enjoyed that little session.

“Well… I mean… we should definitely do this more often…” you replied, your voice soft but filled with a hint of amusement.

Alexia’s eyes widened in victory, her arms raising as if she had just won a championship. “¡Sabía que te iba a encantar y que te ibas a divertir!” she exclaimed, her tone filled with pride. (I knew you were going to love it and have fun!)

You laughed, shaking your head slightly. “Yeah, yeah… I’m only doing it to wear the pretty boots” you lied, feigning indifference as you tried to hide your smile.

Alexia gave you a knowing look, her lips curling into a playful smirk. “Claro” she said, nodding her head slowly, clearly not buying your excuse. “Next time, I’ll teach you how to juggle”

You raised an eyebrow, pretending to be intrigued. “Can’t wait… and also can’t wait for the massage tonight” you said, leaning forward to kiss her softly on the lips as Alexia giggled against them.

As you pulled away from the kiss, you turned your gaze to the horizon. The moment felt serene, peaceful, and you couldn’t help but feel content, with her by your side.

FIN

——

Tag list:

@silentwolfsstuff @bentleywolf29 @simp4panos

cute 🥰😂

Jazz for Peanuts

About the time your daughter shows her attitude

》 Leah Williamson x Reader

》 words count: +1.1k

》 All you need is love. But a little chocolate now and then doesn't hurt.

Deciding to have a kid with Leah is a no-brainer choice, probably the easiest you ever made in your life.

Never been more sure of anything in your life.

She’s exactly the person you pictured growing a family with. Loyal, passionate, caring. Ready to win any fight for the ones she cares, the ones she loves.

The process of having a kid with Leah, however, is anything but easy.

Months of consults, check-ups, exams. Months of doubts and insecurities. Months of waiting out of your power. And for a control freak as the footballer is, those were the worst.

When it finally works, it’s the best feeling ever.

The English captain is over the moon, you’re pretty sure you never saw her happier – you know, you were right by her side when she won the biggest awards of her career, when she promised you forever in front of the most important people in her life.

It’s the best feeling, until the reality of pregnancy hits you like a wall.

It’s up and downs. It’s morning sickness and weird cravings, it’s kind kicks that reminds you there’s an actually living being inside you and painful reminders it’s growing and moving. It’s waves of emotions, all at once and all the time.

It’s a process and you’re glad more than anything that you can go through it with Leah next to you.

Finley comes into your lives loudly, immediately asserting her character and determination.

She surprises the nurses with big, curious eyes and even more impressive lungs. She shows her interest in Amanda’s hair with strong pulls, the same hands that, oh-so-gently, have your hearts wrapped in a thigh grip.

She grows so much and so fast that you end up questioning if such a tiny human being could shape time as she pleases.

Scrappy kicks turn into dangerously fearless tiny steps, and now she runs around the house like the miniature version of an athlete training for some mad competition.

Tiny onesies with animals and Arsenal’s badges turn into colorful and sparkling dresses she wears just a couple of times before she moves on. Now, she apparently inherits her mother’s fashion sense.

Sleepless nights spent crying turn into tantrums over underappreciated lunches, and now she negotiates her screen time like an unfair trial.

Finley is growing into a really determinant, stubborn kid despite being barely tall enough to get on the car seat on her own.

She’s witty, smart, and definitely too cute.

Leah looks at her with a light in her eyes that sparkles just around your daughter, a light that didn’t even exist before Finley.

You may have made her from scratch. Your own organs may have had to find new positions to let her space, but she has your wife’s flame burning inside. It’s something that never fails to amuse you, as annoying as it is sometimes.

Like right now, stuck in North London’s traffic with an inpatient Leah and a bored five-year old daughter in the back seat.

“Finny, my life, can you please stop kicking me?”, the blonde asks, voice over the edge in a way just a kid could get fly over their head.

“I’m not kicking you, I’m kicking the back of the seat”, she argues, as a matter of fact.

You hold a scoff just to not be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

Of course, the traffic light turns red exactly when the car is about to run over it, making the defender drop her head in frustration.

The real challenge is fighting the urge to remind Leah you had, indeed, predicted it.

She had to watch the last minutes of Arsenal’s game, so sure it couldn’t be a problem to delay the drive to your mother’s house. And now you’re stuck, traffic laws and any kind of universal rule against her.

You place a comforting hand on her thigh, trying to be a supportive wife.

“Mama, I’m hungry!”

“I know, we’re almost there”

“Not if mom keeps driving this slow”, your daughter mutters, loud enough to be heard by Leah.

“I’m driving as fast as this idiot in front let me”, she grumples in the exact same way, earning a discrete slap for her words choice, “What? You shouldn’t be allowed on the road if you could be faster by walking, it’s not safe”

“Can I have the candies mama hide under the seat?”

Traitor.

“Finny, keep playing with Bear”, you change the subject, avoiding Leah’s raised eyebrow to divert the little girl’s attention to her toy.

“You could let me starve? That’s not really nice, mama, you always say sharing is caring”

A backstabber, your own daughter.

The English defender is the one trying to suppress an amused laugh now, guessing she’s not in the position to piss you off more, “Finny, it will ruin your appetite, granny made your favourite pasta”

“My appetite is already ruined. It’s taking so long granny’s gonna be dead when we get there”

“Finley!”

“What? You’re pretty old, and granny is even older! She keeps saying she’s ready to reunite with grandad anyway”

You need to have a serious conversation with your mother about the things she says in front of a smart kid that soaks up knowledge like a sponge.

Right now, though, Leah must be the proper adult as you’re trying your best not to burst laughing.

It’s inappropriate, the way you’re both reacting at the witty remarks of a five-years old girl who needs help to brush her teeth but apparently has no issues at roasting her entire family.

You can’t let her realise how clever and funny you think she is. It’s going to make her unstoppable - and insufferable.

Finley shows every sign of listening and understanding the lecture on being patient and gentle with her words that you and Leah are trying to give her. Two adults more troubled with getting a grip on themselves than with their kid’s attitude.

You just know she’s going to use it against you at the first opportunity.

“Fine, I’ll play nice”

It seems to get better after that.

The slowest car ever been on the road finally makes a turn and allows your wife to goose the engine, mother-in-law reassured over the phone for the second time.

Your daughter is calmer, still kicking the back of the seat, but reassured either granny or her are going to die anytime soon.

You, on the other hand, are debating if you could get through it all over again, knowing this is what your life with Leah and Finley looks like.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“How long?”

And, just like that, peace is over.

“Five more minute”

“You sure?”, the kid asks your wife, doubtful but innocently enough.

“I said five more minute, Finny”

It’s coming, she is preparing for the final blow.

You know it’s coming.

Finley waits a moment, then screams, “Siri, start a five minute timer!”

🩷🩷

Apart of Perfect Shot Series

You and Alexia try to start a family

The honeymoon phase of marriage is supposed to be blissful. And in many ways, it still is. But beneath the laughter, the lazy mornings wrapped in each other, the quiet home you’ve built—there’s a weight neither of you can quite shake.

The kind that lingers in the silence after another negative test. The kind that makes Alexia pull you tighter against her at night, even when neither of you speak about it. The kind that makes every hopeful what if? turn into not yet. It’s been months now—long, hopeful, painful months.

The first round of IVF started on your first wedding anniversary had been a whirlwind of emotions excitement, nerves, the belief that surely, surely, it would happen right away. That you’d see the two lines on the test, that Alexia would pick you up and spin you around, that you’d call Eli and Alba with tears of joy instead of frustration.

But the first round had ended in disappointment.

The second? Worse.

Because this time, you’d convinced yourselves that the first was just bad luck. That this time would be different. That this time would be the one. But it wasn’t. And now—now it’s just hard.

You’re in the bathroom, staring down at the test on the counter. Another single line. Another no. Another month lost. Your throat tightens, your hands gripping the sink as you swallow back the sting of disappointment. You knew it was a possibility. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t get your hopes up this time. But hope is a dangerous thing. A small knock on the door makes you tense. You already know who it is.

“Mi amor…” Alexia’s voice is soft, hesitant. She’s been waiting outside since you’d taken the test, giving you space but also aching to know. You can’t bring yourself to answer. The door opens slowly, and then she’s there, your wife, the love of your life, the person who always seems to hold you together. Except—she’s struggling too.

You see it in the way her eyes flicker to the test on the counter, in the way her shoulders drop, in the way she exhales too slowly, like she’s forcing herself to stay strong. She meets your gaze, and for a moment, neither of you say a word. You break. A soft, strangled sob slips out before you can stop it, and in an instant, Alexia is there, wrapping you up in her arms, holding you so tight it’s like she’s trying to physically keep you from shattering.

“I—I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” you whisper against her shoulder, voice trembling. “I don’t—”

“Nothing,” she cuts in, her own voice thick. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

You clutch onto her, burying yourself in her warmth, her safety. “Then why does it feel like I’m failing?”

Alexia squeezes her eyes shut, pressing a firm kiss to your hair. “Because it hurts, mi amor.”

And that’s the truth.

It hurts.

More than you ever thought it would. You don’t know how long you stay like that, wrapped in each other, breathing through the ache. Eventually, Alexia leans back, her hands coming up to cradle your face. “We keep trying,” she murmurs. “Because this isn’t the end. This isn’t where our story stops.” You nod, sniffling, pressing into the touch. She tilts her forehead against yours. “One day, we’re going to look back on this and know that every step, every tear, every heartbreak led us to them.” You let out a shaky breath. Because you believe her. Because despite everything, despite the no’s, the failed rounds, the disappointment, one thing remains unshaken. Hope. And as long as you have that, as long as you have her, you know you’re going to get through this. Together.

The third round felt different. You tried not to let yourselves believe it too much tried to temper the hope, to not let it bloom too fully in case it got crushed again. But when you saw that second line on the pregnancy test, everything else disappeared. The breath left your lungs. Your hands trembled as you held the test in front of you, staring at it, disbelieving.

A positive.

You laughed, you sobbed, you dropped to your knees on the bathroom floor, clutching the tiny plastic stick like it was the most precious thing in the world. Alexia wasn’t home she was away with Barcelona, an away game in Madrid. You ached to tell her in person, to see her face when she realised what this meant, so you decided to wait, to surprise her when she got home.

For 48 hours, you carried this secret like a treasure, your hands instinctively resting over your belly, whispering to the tiny life growing inside you, promising them that they were already so loved.

Then came the blood.

At first, it was just a little. Barely anything. You told yourself it was normal, that implantation bleeding happens, that some women experience spotting in early pregnancy. But by the next morning, it was more. Too much. And suddenly, that hope you had tried so hard to hold onto was slipping through your fingers like sand. Alexia wasn’t home yet. You didn’t tell her. Not yet. Instead, you called the clinic, booked a scan for when she’d be back. You spent the hours alone in quiet dread, curled up in bed, one hand pressed over your stomach, whispering desperate prayers to someone, anyone, please let this be okay.

Alexia came home exhausted, jet-lagged from travel, but thrilled to finally see you. The moment she stepped through the door, she grinned, pulling you into her arms. "Mi amor, I missed you so much."

You let yourself melt into her warmth, gripping her tightly, so tightly it made her pause, her hands moving to cup your face.

“What is it?” she asked softly, her brows furrowing. “What’s wrong?”

You inhaled sharply, blinking back the tears. “Alexia, I—” Your voice cracked. And instantly, her entire demeanour shifted. Concern, fear, flickered in her eyes as she guided you to the couch, hands never leaving you.

“What happened?”

You swallowed thickly, forcing yourself to look at her. “I… I took a test whilst you were away”

Her breath hitched. Her lips parted, eyes widening, searching your face for confirmation. “You—” Tears welled up in her eyes before she could even form a full thought, her hands trembling as they moved to your stomach.

“I wanted to tell you in person,” you whispered. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Alexia’s throat bobbed, her smile so tender, so full of love, it broke your heart all over again.

“It was positive, but, Lex… I—I think something’s wrong.”

The words shattered the moment. Her face dropped, hands freezing over your belly. You told her about the bleeding, about the appointment. Her hands gripped yours, her jaw tightening, the familiar fire of her determination burning behind her eyes. “Then we go,” she said, already reaching for her keys.

The clinic was cold. You sat in the exam room, Alexia’s hand gripping yours tightly, her thumb stroking over your skin, grounding you.

“I’m so sorry.” The words cut through you like a blade. The doctor’s voice was gentle, but the words were brutal. Final. “There’s no heartbeat.”

Silence. You felt Alexia tense beside you, felt the way her breath hitched, but you couldn’t look at her. You couldn’t look at anything except the blank screen where there should have been life. The tears came fast. Unstoppable. Your whole body trembled as the weight of it crashed down on you, pressing against your chest, making it impossible to breathe. Alexia was instantly pulling you into her, arms tight, like she could physically hold you together as you crumbled. “Mi amor, mi amor,” she whispered against your temple, her voice breaking.

You sobbed into her shoulder, hands gripping the fabric of her hoodie so tightly your knuckles ached. It wasn’t fair. You’d done everything right. And still—still, it wasn’t enough.

That night, you didn’t leave your bed, you got home skipped dinner and went straight to bed. Alexia stayed with you, her body wrapped around yours, arms keeping you pressed against her chest as you cried yourself raw. And the weight of letting her down, it left unsaid.

She inhaled sharply, like the words physically wounded her. “Baby…”

Her hand cradled the back of your head, her lips pressing desperately against your hair. You squeezed your eyes shut, the ache in your chest unbearable.

Alexia swallowed thickly, her grip on you tightening. “I know,” she whispered. “I know, mi amor.” You felt her shake against you, felt the silent tears dampen your hair as she held you, as she broke with you. And then, through the thick silence, she whispered, “Whatever you need… however we move forward… I’m with you.”

You buried yourself further into her, needing her warmth, her strength. Because in this moment, you weren’t sure how to move forward. You weren’t sure if you could. All you knew was the pain. The loss. And the arms that held you through it.

Grief changes people. For you, it made everything feel heavy. The world moved on, but you felt like you were stuck, stuck in the loss, in the what could have been, in the endless questions you asked yourself every night when Alexia was fast asleep beside you. And for Alexia? It made her watch you.

She didn’t smother you, didn’t overwhelm you with empty reassurances. But you saw it—the way her eyes lingered on you when she thought you weren’t looking, the way she held you just a little tighter at night, the way she flinched when she woke up to find you staring at the ceiling, lost in your own mind.

She was waiting for you to break. And that’s what hurt the most. Because you knew she was hurting too. You knew she wanted this just as much as you did, but she never let herself be selfish about it. She never asked if you wanted to try again. Never brought up doctors or options or hope. Because she had heard you that night without you evening saying a word.

She had listened and instead of pushing, she had chosen to protect you. Even when it broke her. But you couldn’t live like this. Not with the weight of guilt pressing against your ribs, not with the way Alexia dimmed in a way you had never seen before. And so, you made a choice.

One last time. If it worked—if the universe was finally kind—then you both got everything you wanted. And if it didn’t? Then Alexia never had to know. She never had to relive the pain. The decision settled in your chest like a secret you had to keep. 

You were going to try again for your wife, for everything she always wanted, the thing it seemed you couldn’t give her.

You booked the appointments quietly, slipping out on days when Alexia was at training or away for matches. Every injection, every test, every agonising waiting period—you went through it all alone. It was terrifying. Without her. But more than that it was hopeful. For the first time in months, you felt like you were fighting for something instead of drowning in loss.

You imagined what it would be like to tell Alexia. Imagined her face when she found out. Imagined how it would feel to finally say, ‘It worked. We did it.’

Then, one morning, standing in the bathroom, hands trembling as you held a test between your fingers

Two lines.

A positive.

Your breath caught, your vision blurred, your whole body shook. It had worked. It worked. You pressed a hand over your mouth, choking back a sob as the realisation slammed into you.

You were optimistic with a realism that you had been here before.

Alexia comes home later than usual. You hear the sound of the front door unlocking, the familiar shuffle of her boots as she kicks them off in the hallway. The deep sigh she lets out, the kind she always does after an exhausting training session.

But you don’t move. You can’t. You sat on the couch, staring at the TV, trying to look natural while your heart hammered in your chest.

She was still in her training gear, her hair slightly damp from her post-session shower, her bag slung lazily over one shoulder. And as always she came to find you and when she did. A soft smile pulled at her lips, tired but full of love, as she crossed the room toward you.

She had dropped her bag somewhere near the door, leaned down, and kissed you once. Then again. Then once more for good measure. “Hola, mi amor,” she murmured against your lips. “Missed you.”

You smiled, your stomach twisting with nerves. “Missed you too.”

Alexia hummed, straightening up as she ran a hand through her hair. “I’m starving,” she groaned, already heading toward the kitchen.

You still feigning nonchalance. “Food in the fridge for you, I ate earlier i was hungry”

She grinned, disappearing into the kitchen. And then you waited. The familiar sounds started, the fridge opening, the scrape of a cup, the soft clatter of cutlery and then silence. Your heart skipped a beat. For a moment, there was nothing. Then, slow, deliberate footsteps. When Alexia stepped back into the living room, she wasn’t holding her food. She was holding the five pregnancy tests you had left for her on the counter, all lined up neatly, undeniable in their results.

Her expression was unreadable—her brows slightly furrowed, her lips parted, her eyes wide with disbelief. She looked from the tests to you, then back to the tests.

“Mi amor…?” Her voice was so soft, so shaky, as if she wasn’t quite sure if she was seeing what she thought she was seeing. Your stomach twisted, your breath catching. You tried to speak—really, you did—but all you could do was nod, your throat tight with emotion. Alexia blinked. Once. Twice.

Then, as if she needed to be sure, she slowly lifted one of the tests closer to her face, rereading the little plus sign, as if the result might somehow change.

Her breath shuddered. Her fingers trembled. She looked back at you. And in the softest, most disbelieving whisper “You’re pregnant?”

You nodded, “I took five to be sure” As Alexia sits down, her fingers still curled around the positive test, you see the shift. The happiness spreads to raw emotion as she swatted away at her tears as you moved to put her arms around her, her hand ran up and down your thigh, “I don’t know how to feel either” You whisper

“I’m happy. I’m so happy but.. I don’t want to get ahead of myself”

You nod, “We’ve been here before”

Alexia looked to you her eyes scanning over your face, “If this wasn’t positive, would I of ever known you’d done another round of IVF?” Your silence told her the answer, “Never do that again, please. I want to be involved not for the baby for you, I meant my vows mi amor I want to be there for the good and the bad, and the thought of you going through another loss alone tears me apart”

You peck her lips, “I’m sorry, I can see your hurting, I can see your breaking Lex and you’re trying to be strong for me, and I just.. I want to make you happy. And I feel the only thing I can give you is a baby and I can’t even get that right”

“Hey” Alexia turned her body fully to you, “No. Baby or not. I love you. You are my wife. I didn’t fall in love with you and marry you for you to give me a baby Y/N. Don’t ever think I think or feel less of you because this isn’t working for us.” You nodded and she cupped your face, “We stay cautiously optimistic ok? You’re pregnant” she let herself smile, “And that’s incredible, but we don’t get ahead of ourselves”

You nodded, pecking her lips, “Don’t call me Y/N again” Alexia chuckled you put your finger over her lips, “It’s Mi Amor or silence”

“Yes Mi Amor” You kissed each other lips moving in perfect synchronicity, “It’s positive”

You both giggled, “I know.” You looked to your stomach, “There’s a little baby in there”

“We’re doing what we literally just said we wouldn’t”

—

The drive to the clinic is quiet. Not because you and Alexia don’t have anything to say, but because neither of you can find the words. You sit in the passenger seat, hands clasped tightly over your stomach, trying to steady your breathing. You can feelAlexia glance at you every few seconds, her fingers twitching on the steering wheel like she wants to reach for you but doesn’t want to take her eyes off the road.

When she finally speaks, her voice is soft. “You okay?” You nod, but your throat is too tight to answer properly. Alexia sighs, her free hand reaching over to squeeze yours. “I know,” she murmurs. “Me too.” Because this moment—the space between knowing and really knowing—is the most terrifying part. You want to believe it. You want to let yourself hope. But you’ve been here before.

The clinic is just as you remember it—too bright, too clinical, too full of possibilities. Alexia never lets go of your hand as you check in, as you’re led down the hallway, as you settle onto the exam table.  

The nurse smiles warmly at you both. “You’re here for an early scan?”  

You nod, swallowing thickly. “We just… we just want to make sure everything’s okay.”  

She nods in understanding, her smile never wavering. “That’s completely normal. You’ve been through a lot to get here.”  

Alexia shifts beside you, her grip tightening on your fingers. “Is it too early to see anything?” she asks, her voice steady but her eyes uncertain.  

The nurse shakes her head. “At this stage, we won’t see much, but we will be able to check for a heartbeat.”  

A heartbeat. You exhale shakily, your chest tightening. 

The nurse prepares the ultrasound, and Alexia presses a kiss to your forehead, whispering, “I’m right here.”  

The cool gel on your stomach makes you shiver, but it’s nothing compared to the way your whole body tenses as the probe moves across your skin. The room is silent for a moment.  

You hold your breath. Alexia holds you.  

And then—  

A sound.  

Faint at first. A soft, rhythmic whoosh-whoosh-whoosh.  

Your chest cracks open. Alexia sucks in a breath, her eyes going wide.  

“There it is,” the nurse says gently. “A very strong heartbeat.”  

You don’t realise you’re crying until Alexia lifts your hand to her lips, pressing a firm kiss against your knuckles. She’s crying too. The nurse adjusts the screen slightly, pointing to a tiny, barely visible speck. “There’s your baby.”  

Your baby.  

You let out a soft, shaky laugh, your free hand instinctively moving toward your stomach. “They’re so small.”  

Alexia breathes out a choked laugh. “They’re there.”  

The nurse nods, smiling at you both. “Everything looks good. Strong heartbeat, early signs are all positive. I know it’s still early, but this is a great start.”  

A great start.  

You turn to Alexia, fresh tears slipping down your cheeks. “We did it.”  

She swallows thickly, her forehead pressing against yours. “You did it.”  

For the first time in a long, long time you let yourself believe it.

At first, neither of you spoke about the future much just one day at a time, one quiet milestone at a time. But then things kept going well. Your symptoms came on strong, morning sickness, exhaustion, all the usual things, but you welcomed every wave of nausea, every sleepless night, because it meant the pregnancy was progressing.

And then, around 12 weeks, a tiny bump started to show. Only noticeable in the mornings and evenings, but it was there, signs of growth. It wasn’t obvious to anyone else, but Alexia noticed immediately. From that moment on, she was obsessed. Every morning before she left for training, her hand would drift under your shirt, fingers ghosting over your stomach, a tiny, unconscious smile playing at her lips.

Every night before bed, she’d lie beside you, palm resting just below your navel, warmth seeping through your skin. She touched you like she needed to. Like every moment she wasn’t touching you, she might forget this was really happening.

But it wasn’t just your stomach she was obsessed with. Your body was changing in more ways than one. And Alexia noticed. Of course, she knew your body better than you did.

One evening, as you changed into pyjamas, you caught her staring in the mirror. Her arms were crossed, her lips slightly parted, very clearly focused on something other than your stomach.  

You rolled your eyes. “You’re so obvious.”  

She smirked, stepping behind you, her hands immediately cupping your breasts from behind, giving them a gentle squeeze. “I’m just… appreciating,” she murmured, lips pressing against your neck.  

You groaned, swatting her hands away halfheartedly. “They hurt, Lex.”  

She hummed, not even remotely deterred. “They’re just bigger” she mused, her hands lingering, her thumbs brushing over you lightly. “And sensitive.”  

You shot her a glare through the mirror. “Exactly. So hands off.”  

She pouted but finally let go, sighing dramatically. “I don’t know if I should be honoured or offended by how unfair pregnancy is to me.”  

You turned in her arms, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, you think you have it tough?”  

She nodded, lips twitching. “Yes. I have to suffer through your boobs getting bigger and not getting to enjoy them.”  

You smacked her arm, laughing. “You’re impossible.”  

She smirked, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips. “But you love me.”  

You sighed against her, already melting. “Unfortunately.”  

She grinned, hands sliding back down to where your bump was showing, but it could have been the biggest bowl of paella Alexia gave you. “And I love you.”  

You hummed. “And my boobs.”  

“That too.” 

Alexia’s hands remained firm on your stomach, fingers tracing gentle patterns over the slight curve of your stomach. Her eyes flickered up to meet yours in the mirror, full of mischief, adoration, and something else—something unmistakably hungry. You knew this look. You also knew that once Alexia decided she wanted something, she wouldn’t stop until she got it.

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “You are impossible.”

She hummed against your neck, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss there. “I just think,” she murmured, her hands moving just slightly under your shirt, her palms flat against your warm skin, “that we should celebrate.”

You arched an eyebrow, though your resolve was already crumbling. “Celebrate what, exactly?”

She smirked, her lips brushing against your jaw. “That you’re growing our baby,” she whispered, her voice low, reverent. “That I get to love you like this. That you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

A shiver ran down your spine at her words. Damn her. Damn her and her hands and her mouth and the way she could make you melt with nothing more than a whisper. You exhaled shakily. “Alexia—”

“Mmm?” She feigned innocence, but her fingers were already slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, grazing the underside of your breast. “Too much?”

You swallowed hard, your body betraying you as you leaned into her touch. She grinned, sensing your resolve slipping, her thumbs drawing slow, deliberate circles against your skin.

“I just want to touch you,” she murmured against your ear, her voice sending warmth flooding through your body. “Let me?”

And how could you say no when she sounded like that? When she looked at you like you were her entire world? You sighed, closing your eyes for a moment before finally turning in her arms, your hands moving up to cup her face. “I hate you,” you muttered, though there was no weight to it.

Alexia grinned. “You love me.”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could say anything else, she closed the gap between you, her lips capturing yours in a slow, deliberate kiss. It was different—slower, deeper, filled with something heavier than just desire. Love. Worship. Alexia kissed you like she was memorising you, like she needed to show you everything she felt because words would never be enough. And as her hands moved to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, you let her. You let yourself fall. Because no matter how impossible she was yours.

Alexia’s hands moved deliberately, reverently, over your waist, her touch slow and exploratory. There was no rush—just the warmth of her fingertips, the way she cupped your body like she was memorising every new curve, every change, every part of you that had shifted since the pregnancy began.

Her lips trailed down your neck, lingering, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. “You’re so beautiful,” she murmured against your skin, her voice hushed, full of something almost worshipful.

Your breath hitched as her hands slid higher, her thumbs brushing just beneath your breasts, testing, waiting.

You exhaled shakily, biting your lip. “They’re sensitive,” you whispered, though you weren’t entirely sure if it was a warning or an invitation.

Alexia hummed in understanding, her gaze flicking up to yours as if asking permission. You swallowed hard, nodding once. That was all she needed. Her fingers curled gently around your curves, her thumbs pressing feather-light circles into the tender skin. The sensation sent a warmth rippling through you—too much and not enough all at once.

“Dios mío,” Alexia whispered, her voice thick with awe. “So full. So soft.”

A whimper slipped from your lips when her thumbs brushed over your nipples, the sensitivity making your breath stutter. She smirked at your reaction, her touch turning slightly firmer, her lips following, pressing kisses along the swell of your breast before flicking her tongue out, teasing, exploring. Your fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her closer. “Alexia,” you gasped, your body pressing into her, already feeling consumed by her touch, her warmth, the way she devoured you without hurry, without urgency—just pure, unfiltered adoration.

She chuckled against your skin, her breath warm, teasing. “Mmm, I love hearing you say my name like that.”

You tugged her hair harder, making her groan. Her hands slid down to your hips, gripping, holding you steady as she continued her slow, intoxicating assault. Every flick of her tongue, every press of her lips, every gentle squeeze sent a new wave of pleasure washing over you, pulling you under with her. She wasn’t just touching you. She was worshiping you. Loving every new part of you. Every change. Every sign of the life you were growing together. And in this moment—wrapped in her arms, completely undone by her love, her devotion—you had never felt more cherished.

Alexia took her time, her touch slow, deliberate—like she was learning everything about you all over again. Her lips never left your skin, pressing soft, lingering kisses along your collarbone, down the curve of your breasts, her breath warm against your already sensitive skin.

You had always known her to be patient, controlled, but tonight she was reverent.

She whispered against your skin, her voice husky. “I love how your body is changing,” she murmured, her hands sliding along your sides, tracing every new curve, every inch of softness. “I love you.”

You gasped as her fingers brushed over your already sensitive peaks, her thumbs circling, teasing, sending sharp jolts of pleasure straight through you. Your body reacted immediately—back arching, breath catching, heat pooling low in your stomach. She smirked at the effect she had on you, her hands steady, her eyes dark with something intense, something undeniable.

You whined softly, your grip on her tightening. “Alexia—”

She hummed, dipping her head lower, her lips brushing over the swell of your breast before capturing you fully. The sensation sent a deep shiver through you, the pleasure sharp and overwhelming. She knew you were sensitive, knew exactly what it did to you, and yet—she didn’t stop. She worshiped you, her touch, her mouth, her hands moving in perfect rhythm, coaxing soft, breathy moans from your lips. Every flick of her tongue, every teasing squeeze, every gentle pull sent you spiralling, climbing. And she knew. She could feel it. The way your breath hitched. The way your fingers tangled in her hair, holding her close. The way your body arched into her, desperate for more. She smiled against your skin, her voice full of heat. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

You whimpered, nodding, the pressure coiling impossibly tight inside you. She didn’t stop. Didn’t rush. She just stayed with you, guiding you, coaxing you, until the tension finally broke—pleasure crashing over you in waves so intense it left you shaking in her arms. She held you through it, whispering soft, soothing words against your skin, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheeks, your lips.

“I’ve got you,” she murmured, her hands never leaving you. “Always.”

And as you slowly came down, body still tingling, heart still racing, you let out a soft, breathless laugh. “You’re so smug right now.”

Alexia grinned, pressing another lingering kiss to your lips. “Of course I am,” she teased. “I made you come by playing with your boobs.”

You sighed, melting into her, completely boneless. And in that moment, wrapped in her arms, her warmth, her love You knew. You were hers. Completely.

You thought morning sickness meant… well, mornings. You were wrong.

It’s relentless—unforgiving in the way it rolls through you in waves, taking with it your appetite, your patience, and any desire to even look at food. It hits you the hardest first thing, the moment you open your eyes. But it doesn’t stop there. By mid-afternoon, it circles back, and by evening, you're utterly drained, your body heavy with fatigue, your stomach rebelling against anything you try to keep down.

Even water feels like a gamble some days. And it’s starting to wear on you. Alexia tries to keep things as normal as possible, but you know she’s worried. She hovers without hovering, always within reach—bringing toast in the mornings, holding your hair when things get bad, Googling every possible morning sickness remedy known to mankind.

You’re curled on the couch today, blanket wrapped around you, a half-finished cup of ginger tea sitting cold on the coffee table.

Alexia pads in from the kitchen, holding a small plate with dry crackers and a hopeful expression.

“They said plain is best,” she offers gently, crouching down beside you. “Want to try?” You stare at the crackers like they’ve personally wronged you. She smirks, brushing your hair back from your face. “I’ll take that as a maybe.”

You let out a soft groan, burying your face in the blanket. “I hate this. I hate this part.”

Alexia’s fingers trail lightly along your forehead. “I know, mi amor. I wish I could take it from you.”

“I wish anyone could take it from me.” She sits on the edge of the couch, gently pulling you into her lap until your head rests against her shoulder, her arms wrapping tightly around you.

You sigh heavily, your voice muffled in her shirt. “I’m so tired of throwing up. I can’t even smell toast without wanting to cry.”

Alexia laughs softly, rubbing your back. “You did cry yesterday. Because of a banana.”

“It was rude,” you mutter.

She kisses the top of your head. “You’re growing a human. I think you’re allowed to be dramatic about fruit.”

You smile faintly, eyes fluttering closed as you rest in the safety of her arms. “I just… I didn’t expect to feel this bad.”

Alexia tightens her hold on you, her cheek resting against your temple. “You don’t have to be strong through all of it, you know? You’re allowed to hate it. You’re allowed to complain. You’re allowed to feel everything.”

You nod slowly, swallowing down the lump in your throat. “I just feel useless.”

“You’re the opposite of useless,” she says immediately, without hesitation. “You’re doing something I can’t. You’re carrying our baby. That’s everything.”

You let the words sink in, feeling the sting of tears behind your eyes—but this time not from nausea. “Okay,” you whisper. “But if I ever eat again, it’s going to be something deeply unhealthy.”

Alexia chuckles, nuzzling her nose into your hair. “Done. Ice cream for dinner. As soon as your stomach stops being an asshole.” You laugh softly—tired, aching, but loved. Because even when your body is rebelling against you, even when all you’ve managed to keep down today is a cracker and three sips of tea, Alexia holds you like you’re doing the most incredible thing in the world. And deep down… you know you are.

Dinner with Alba and Eli had sounded like a great idea when Alexia suggested it. Something warm, something normal—just the four of you, catching up, laughing, letting the world feel simple again, if only for a few hours. But as you stand in the kitchen, clinging to the edge of the counter, willing yourself not to vomit from the smell of the garlic sizzling in the pan, you're starting to deeply question your judgment.

Alexia catches your pale, sweaty reflection in the glass oven door and immediately steps in. She slides a hand across your back, firm and grounding, her other hand moving to take the wooden spoon from your fingers. “Go sit down,” she murmurs gently. “I’ve got this.”

You don’t argue. You can’t. You’re already lightheaded by the time you curl up on the couch, clutching a glass of water like it might save your life. Just as you let your head rest back, the doorbell rings.

You and Alexia lock eyes for a moment. She gives you a soft, knowing look—a we’ve got this kind of look—before she wipes her hands and goes to let them in. Alba is the first to storm in, dramatic as ever, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a baguette in the other. “Hola, família! I brought carbs and chaos!”

Eli follows with a softer smile, always warm, always perceptive. But the second they both spot you on the couch—pale, tired, wrapped in a blanket like you’re clinging to the edge of consciousness—their moods shift.

Alba slows to a stop, narrowing her eyes. “Whoa. Are you okay? You look like… shit.”

You muster the weakest smile you can manage. “Thanks, Alba.”

Eli, more gently, sets her bag down and moves closer. “Mi amor, you’re so pale. Are you sick?”

Alexia walks in quickly, too casually, drying her hands on a towel. “She’s okay. She’s just had a stomach bug all week. It’s been rough, but she’s getting through it.”

You nod, adding, “It’s the worst flu I’ve ever had. Won’t go away.”

Alba makes a face. “You’ve had it for a week? That’s not normal. Have you gone to a doctor?”

Alexia sits beside you, sliding a subtle hand over your knee under the blanket. “She’s been seen. They said it just has to run its course.”

“Well,” she finally says, smiling as she moves to the kitchen, “then you sit and rest, and we’ll take care of everything else.”

Alba follows her, still suspicious. “If I catch this mystery flu, I swear…”

As soon as they’re out of the room, you turn to Alexia and whisper, “Do they know?”

She shakes her head. “Not yet.”

“She was watching me like I was hiding a second head.”

Alexia leans in, brushing her nose against your temple. “You are hiding something. A very tiny someone.”

You smile faintly. “I hate lying to them.”

“I know. But it’s just for now. Until we’re sure everything’s ok.”

You nod slowly, laying your head on her shoulder. “Okay. Just a little longer.” And as Eli and Alba clatter around in the kitchen, making dinner, laughing like nothing is amiss, you sit quietly on the couch—tired, nauseous, nervous— But wrapped in your wife’s arms. And still full of the quietest kind of joy.

I feel like lovie can con Leah into anything so one day lovie ask for a dog and she goes up to Leah saying “mama you know how you said you would get me whatever I wanted well I want a puppy can you do it please mama” and Leah can’t say no to her so she comes home with a puppy one day 

WEAK SPOT | alessia russo x child!reader x leah williamson

grumpy masterlist

leah always prided herself on being strong-willed. she could command a defence, lead a team and hold her ground during tough and important matches.

but when it came to you? yeah, she was absolutely useless.

alessia had warned her, of course. "she's four, le. she knows exactly how to get what she wants from you. you have to learn to say no."

leah had just waved her off at the time, convinced she had things under control and that she knew exactly how to say no, like come on it's wasn't that hard after all it was only two letters long.

that was, until one lazy saturday afternoon, a rare break in the footballing calendar where there wasn't any matches but as ever while you and leah enjoyed a relaxing day, alessia was busy running errands she hadn't had time to do through the week.

you climbed into leah's lap, your esme the elephant under you arm as leah was busy reading on her phone. you beginning to play with the hem of her hoodie.

"mama," you started sweetly, looking up at leah with those big impossibly big blue eyes — that leah couldn't seem to say no to.

leah placed her phone down on her chest as she glanced down at you, already sensing danger, "yes, angel?"

"you know how you always say you want me to be happy?"

leah hesitated, unsure at where this was going to go, "uh.. yeah?"

you beamed, inching closer, "well, esme the elephant thinks a puppy would make me so happy." you said resting esme on leah's chest, as leah raised her eyebrows a smirk appearing on her lips.

"esme thinks this does she?"

"well, esme and me”

"can you do it, please. mama?" you pleaded, as you blinked up at her in a way that should have been illegal.

leah was done for.

—

two days later, leah was walking through the front door with a squirming golden retriever puppy in her arms. alessia who had been peacefully making tea in the kitchen, a smile appearing on her face as she heard the front door open and close behind her knowing exactly who it'd be.

expect that big smile quickly disappeared as she turned around and immediately freezing as her face dropped. alessia's eyes darting from leah to the wiggling ball of fluff in her arms, her mouth falling open.

"leah cathrine williamson." she groaned out loud setting her mug down with excruciating precision, "that better be a friends dog-"

leah's face gave it all away in a moment as she winced at her girlfriend's question, "so, okay, before you get mad—"

"before i get mad?" alessia let out a breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. "you're telling me you just— just walked into a shelter and adopted a dog on your way home from the shops?"

"well, technically i drove there.." leah trailed off. alessia's face less than impressed.

"leah."

leah sighed, shifting the puppy that was in her arms slightly, "listen, less. i tired to say no, i did i promise i really tried." leah began as she stuttered out her words, alessia following along her eyebrows perking ever other word.

"but she looked at me with those eyes and asked and well i admit it, i can't say no to her!" leah lifted the puppy slightly, "and i mean, look at him! that little face. i couldn't say no to that face either-"

alessia slightly amused that leah had finally admitted that she couldn't say no, but her unimpressed demeanour returning as she crossed her arms, "i can say no."

just then the puppy let out a tiny yawn, his ears flopping adorably as he nuzzled further into leah's hoodie, alessia's gaze faltered slightly, her lips twitching. 

leah smirked, "mhm, that's what i thought!"

before alessia could argue her case, your little voice squealed from down the hall, probably realising leah was finally home.

"mama, mama, you got him!"

you came running into the room, your socks slipping slightly on the wooden floor as you skidded to a stop in front of leah. your eyes wide with excitement as you reached up to gently cup the puppy's face.

"you got me the puppy!" you gasped, bouncing on your toes before throwing your little arms around leah's leg, "thank you, thank you, thank you!"

leah grinned, ruffling your hair slightly, "of course, angel."

alessia however, let out a dry laugh folding her arms, "she had and she's also bought herself some time to get some willpower lessons."

leah scoffed, feigning offence. "that's rude."

alessia raised an eyebrow, "is it cause at this rate, lovie could ask for a pony next week, and you'd be out the door before i even noticed."

leah opened her mouth to protest but you were already tugging on her hoodie again.

"mama, can we get a pony too?"

leah froze, opening her mouth to try and say the words but nothing was coming out from her lips.

alessia smirked, knowing she was right, "see?"

leah sighed, looking down at the puppy who licked her chin, "ok, okay, but admit it - he's adorable."

alessia sighed to, finally relenting. she crouched down scratching behind the puppy's ears, "yeah, yeah he's cute."

you clapped your hands excitedly, bouncing on your toes. "can we name him waffles?"

leah and alessia exchanged a look. leah smiled. "waffles it is!"

Could you write leah x alessia x reader where less getts a yellow card in a match and y/n isn't best pleased about it so leah tries to get them to make.uo with eachother

she just hiiits different in an arsenal kit. also PSA just because i write this does not mean i actually ship less x leah in real life! also decided to make it a red card for the extra drama

seeing red II a.russo x l.williamson

you anxiously bounced your leg from where you sat watching your girlfriends play at the emirates, sighing with a shake of your head as alessia was given a yellow card for shoving someone in the back.

ever since she'd joined arsenal her confidence on the pitch had clearly grown and you weren't the only one who'd noticed that she was more aggressive in her style of play.

so had liverpool who were clearly targeting both her and katie, the infamous card receivers of the team their reputation proceeded them. katie was already on a yellow but had at least calmed down somewhat, knowing that next came the dreaded red.

but that didn’t stop them. so whether it be pulling shirts, taking out legs, yanking on hair, liverpool were doing all they could under quite a laid back referee to wind both girls up, and it was working.

you watched as alessia and several of her team mates started to protest the card, the blonde throwing her hands around and reenacting how she was pulled back by her hair just a few moments before the shove. which admittedly the liverpool played had acted up in their dramatic falling to the ground and front roll.

you bit your lip nervously before leah finally stepped in, gently pushing alessia away and pulling her to the side, getting in her ear about hopefully calming down as kim stepped in to speak with the referee, obviously apologizing on her players behalf as he nodded and blew the whistle for play to resume.

you watched with a frown as alessia shoved leah away with an annoyed shake of her head, your other girlfriend sighing and jogging back to her position as alessia readied herself to play on.

you hoped she'd calm down, surely now she was on one card she knew she just needed to suck it up and be careful. there was only ten minutes plus stoppage time left, you knew she could do it you just hoped alessia felt the same.

turns out, she did not.

within five minutes of the first card you watched as one of the players held her back by her shirt as she shot for goal, meaning the blonde went tumbling to the ground and kicked it out instead earning the opposition a goal kick.

well that seemed to just about do it.

within a few seconds alessia was back to her feet, rounding on the liverpool defender and grabbing her shirt in her balled fists, getting in her face angrily as the girl held her hands up clearly trying to show she wasn't involving herself.

then things got worse. having had enough alessia harshly pushed the girl to the ground, sending her falling onto her ass before storming off, ignoring the referee's whistles after her, already knowing what was coming.

sure enough came the second yellow, and then the red, your girlfriend already making her way to the tunnel, shoving leah away who tried to comfort her.

your lips pursed into a thin line of disappointment at the older girls behavior, having warned her multiple times about this new often reckless attitude and how it was going to bite her in the ass.

and here the proof was in the pudding.

thankfully even now down to ten beth managed to score, putting them up 3-1 and clenching the win. nine minutes of injury time added on to play and you watched with wide eyes as your other girlfriend raced down the pitch for the final corner of the game.

then with a perfectly angled kick from frida, your blonde lover put her head to it and it sailed into the back of the net. you cheered loudly and proudly, blowing leah a kiss as her eyes found yours with a cheeky grin and the whistle blew to end the match.

waiting for your girlfriends to both join you in the family and friends box you busied yourself chatting with their team mates loved ones. knowing alessia would likely be getting quite the talking to not only from leah but her coach, it didn't surprise you as you were one of the only few left waiting.

eventually you spotted leah enter first, making a beeline right for you with a beaming smile. "well hello beautiful." the blonde rasped, picking you up into a hug and spinning you around as you grinned, pecking her a few times on the lips and mumbling how proud you were of her.

"you're looking very waggy today my girl." leah winked, nodding to her jersey which sat on your top half, alessia's puffer on over the top of that as the prada sunglasses you'd stolen from one of them sat on top of your head.

"waggy hm?" you grinned, spotting alessia entering over leahs shoulder, glancing around until she spotted you both. leah noticed the way your face changed at the sight, sighing as she realised you were clearly upset with the other girl.

"hey love, take it easy on her." leah warned quietly in your ear as alessia joined you both. "hi gorgeous." the tall blonde grinned in your direction opening her arms for a hug, chewing her gum with a smug smile that was annoyingly attractive.

"can we go please?" you directed the question to leah, grabbing your bag and completely blanking alessia who scoffed. "what did i do?" she asked her other girlfriend with a frown as you brushed past her heading for the exit.

"you know exactly what you did less." leah rolled her eyes, gesturing for the two of them to follow you as alessia huffed.

"it's not my fault they were all picking on me today, you even said i was being targeted!" alessia defended herself to leah who only hummed, having already ripped into her girlfriend about the card once the match had finished.

"yes and i also warned you about retaliating being giving them exactly what they wanted. but did you listen? no. you big dope!" leah shoved the taller girl as they hurried after you into the elevator.

"so unfair." alessia mumbled, crossing her arms and you felt her eyes burning into you longingly but you held firm, leaning into leah who wrapped an arm around your shoulders.

as the three of you reached alessia's car you kissed the oldest blonde goodbye, having driven yourself this morning while they'd driven together needing to be there earlier. "hey!" alessia called after you with a frown as you quickly walked off to your car, again completely blanking her.

"oh you have some serious grovelling to do." leah chuckled in amusement as she slid into the passenger seat of the mercedes, alessia shooting her a dirty look as she slammed her door closed.

"help me." the younger of the two requested with a pout, leah rolling her eyes and leaning over to kiss it away. "fine. but you still need to make it up to her, you know how worried she already gets about injuries the last thing she needs on her mind is worrying about cards and fist fights love." leah warned sternly buckling herself in.

"i pushed her over i wasn't gonna get in a fist fight with her! well...not yet."

~

returning home both girls arrived after you, your car already parked in the driveway as they made their way inside. as alessia struggled to take her trainers off leah ventured away to find you, seeking you out where you stood in the kitchen.

you glanced over with a soft smile seeing leah enter, the older girl kissing your cheek hello and snagging a protein smoothie out of the open fridge where you'd been trying to work out what to cook for dinner with what you had.

alessia entered next, leah sending her a look as she pulled herself up to sit on the counter and your other girlfriend cautiously made her way over to you. when you refused to look over she attempted to go in for a hug, grunting as something shoved into her stomach.

looking down she realised you held out a protein smoothie effectively blocking her from touching you, which she accepted as you closed the fridge and moved over to leah. you leant against the counter in between the blondes legs, pulling out your phone and resting your head back against her chest as you flicked through for recipe ideas.

"baby please come on. i'm sorry!" alessia put down the drink and frowned at you from across the room. "are you?" you spoke sharply, glancing at her as she hesitated. "well-" the brief pause was enough for you as you scoffed, quickly exiting the kitchen as they both heard you flop down into the lounge instead.

"yeah nice one, genius!" leah rolled her eyes, hopping down from the counter and shoving the taller girl with a shake of her head. "what! i'm sorry i got a red for it but i'm not sorry for standing up for myself. did you want me to lie to her?" alessia huffed, annoyed at your lack of attention toward her.

"she can still hear you, idiots!" you yelled out from the lounge with a roll of your eyes, flicking on the tv to drown them out.

"go and shower, i'll talk to her. and when you get out this contains a brain. try to use it yeah?" leah knocked harshly on alessia's forehead as the younger girl smacked her hands away with a scowl, storming off to the bathroom.

"don't." you warned as leah appeared at the end of the lounge, looking down at you with an amused smile. "what?" leah feigned innocence, gesturing for you to sit up as she sat down, your head falling to her lap as her fingers carded through your hair.

"where's this come from babe? we've both been carded before." leah asked quietly after a few moments, still playing with your hair as you sighed and rolled onto your back, looking up at her. "i know. but they were clearly trying to target her today, and the more she gives in and kicks off the more thats going to happen." you started to explain where you were coming from.

"and if that keeps happening and she gets on the wrong end of a poor tackle or something she might..." you trailed off as leah nodded in understanding, knowing that ever since she'd done her acl your worries for them both being injured had grown ten fold.

now knowing your anger was coming from a place of worry, leah bent down to tenderly kiss your forehead as you sighed. "you need to tell her that then sweets, she might actually listen to you." leah cautioned as you nodded, knowing she was right.

"we're letting this overshadow the fact someone scored today though!" you remembered suddenly, moving to sit up and straddle the blondes lap. "oh you noticed that did you? was nothing!" leah waved it off casually with a shrug before sending you a beaming grin, pulling you in for a kiss.

her hand coming to rest on the back of your head deepening the kiss you both failed to notice alessia return, the striker rolling her eyes at the sight of the two of you making out, jealously pumping through her veins as she threw herself down on the other end of the lounge with a scoff.

the noise caused you to pull away, resting your head on leahs shoulder and looking to the grumpy blonde across from you. "go on." leah murmured in your ear, patting your bum with a firm look as you nodded and stood up.

alessia looked up as you kicked her feet apart, moving to stand between them and stare down at her with an annoyed look on your face. though as promised you explained just why you were so frustrated with her, features softening as guilt flooded alessia's at the confession.

the striker was quick to apologise, this time sincerely and with a promise she would try her very best to be more careful and considerate.

with a nod of acceptance you collapsed into her awaiting arms which wrapped around you, your legs wrapping around her waist as she shuffled forward, squeezing you tightly and mumbling how much she loved you in your shoulder as your hands pressed at the back of her head and you nodded.

moving your hands to gently rest on her cheeks you kissed her sweetly, thumbs caressing her jaw as the striker kissed your palms with a soft smile, the tall girl melting into a puddle every time you showed her any sort of affections.

“but don’t entirely lie gorgeous, you find it quite hot when we get angry on the pitch.” alessia grinned knowingly, her large hands moving to squeeze your thighs teasingly. “maybe just a tiny bit.” you left millimetres in between your fingers making alessia laugh, one of your favourite sounds.

"excuse me. third girlfriend is feeling a bit left out here!" leah interrupted the sweet moment from the other end of the lounge with a frown as alessia's grip on you tightened and your head fell to her shoulder, glancing to leah with an amused smile.

“come here then stroppy.” gesturing for her to move closer the three of you shuffled around until you were comfortable, your body wedged in between them as your top half rested against leah, your legs draped across alessia's lap as the girl massaged your feet.

your girls.

Such a good, well written and well thought story! Loved the banter. Need more fics like this..

And through the clouds, I see love shine

About when, on a Wednesday in a restaurant at Barcelona, you watch it begin again

》 Alexia Putellas x Reader

》 words count: 12.8k

》 fight a losing battle [idiom]: also known as “losing game”, to try hard to do something when there is no chance that you will succeed, a failing effort or activity 

Your last relationship ends so badly that you consider abstinence from everything – processed sugar, alcohol, and even people. A period of deep cleansing, as if you could purify every cell of your body, like a celebrity spiraling from rehab to full-blown identity crisis.

This emotional state explains why you find yourself on a one-way flight to Barcelona, all your things crumbled in a backpack.  A rash impulse led you to declutter your belongings, a wishful attempt of turning into a completely new person just because your closet is now half what it used to be.

The decision to straight-up flee is rushed and quite terrifying, much like many of your recent choices.

Elena, your best friend since you were barely old enough to share made-up stories and Barbie-like careers, thinks you’re going mental. She nearly cries when you decide to donate your vintage Christian Lacroix jacket, but you’re convinced it’s the only way to get a new lease on life, so she mourns in silence.

The loudest reaction comes from your brother, who, if you could be mature enough to admit it, is the only voice of reason that almost resonates in your head. 

Almost.

Despite your stubbornness, you accept the offer of hospitality from one of his university friends, who gives away a spare room. You don’t plan on staying in a hotel for gods know how long, and you certainly don’t have the patience to search for an apartment. You’re not completely out of mind, if they want to help, so be it. 

Barcelona is brighter and feels as welcoming as you hoped, though that might just be the nicer weather and the fact you’re far from your problems. And your ex. 

The first month flies by in a rush of Catalan cafeterias, art galleries, and little boutiques that refill both your closet and your spirit. 

The people here are kind enough to put up with your attempts to speak the language, humoring you since you’re oh-so-sure that eleven consecutive days on a passive-aggressive app have made you fluent.

The places you visit and the ones strangers recommend are loud enough to ignore the voices of reason in your ear that start to sound a lot like your brother’s.

Still, there’s only so much one can do to avoid responsibilities and self-consciousness.

“You need a job”, Ricardo states one morning, finding you in the kitchen eating cold pizza, still in the clothes you wore two nights ago.

Your closet isn’t as limited anymore.

“I’ve saved enough money to enjoy my vacation, thanks for your concern”

“I thought that was the money saved to buy a house with your ex”

“I do not have an ex nor a house to worry about, do I?”

As soon as the pizza starts to taste like regret, you’re ready to end the conversation to sleep the rest of day away. 

Ricardo means well, you know that. 

He’s a nice guy and a good roommate, but, like your brother, he’s overprotective and likes to gossip a little too much. Sometimes, it’s surprising how much he knows about you. Most of the time, it’s just annoying.

“I’m want to say– maybe a routine could be good for you”

“I have a routine”, you retort, knowing it’s a fat lie.

You’re out of the bed before eleven only if you didn’t sleep through the night before, wandering around the city with no real destination until something, somehow, catches your attention.

It’s not a bad thing per se, but it’s not a sustainable lifestyle.

“You quit a well-paid accounting job, right?”

“Ricardo, I swear, I’m this close to reporting you for stalking”

His laugh is too loud this early in the morning, but the comfort of bantering with someone who knows you is too familiar to ignore. Even if most of his insight comes from your nosy brother.

They both need to find a hobby that doesn’t involve judging your questionable life choices.

He sips his coffee while studying you, assessing how risky it would be to keep pushing the subject.

Apparently, he feels brave enough.

“My friends’ restaurant could use some help”

~

You’re not sure if Ricardo downplayed it or if he’s just blissfully unaware, but his friends don’t need some help – they need a miracle. 

That’s what happens when you get scammed by your bookkeeper. 

Despite not being really familiar with Spanish tax laws and regulation, it’s clear as the day someone exploited every possible loophole in the profitable business run by three way-too-trusting men. The truth becomes evident as you examine their accounting ledger, your frown deepening with each passing moment.

You have been to their restaurant before, and have loved it.

The place is cosy and carefully maintained. The food is prepared by a grumpy man from Puerto Rico named Paco, who, after twenty years in Barcelona, learned just enough cursing in Catalan to run the kitchen. Local bands play live on the weekend and someone’s mom made sure everyone is nice and well mannered. The worn wooden tables are witness of countless shared meals. 

Pedro and Paul, the other two owners, can only be described as a comedy duo with a really questionable sense of style and even worse jokes. But they’re nice enough, definitely good company when you have a bad day. They can turn it upside down so quickly, for the better or the worst.

However, Ricardo tells you how much the restaurant means for his friends and the local community, guilt-tripping you into helping them to fix their finances.

The truth is, you love math and numbers so much that a challenge like this excites you more than it’s appropriate to admit.

Hence, you agree to help them for far less money you could have asked anyone in the same situation.

They take it as a promise to make sure the business keeps running and organise a dinner with way too many people to celebrate your help.

“I’ve barely started looking into it, Pedro”, you complain, not used to such enthusiasm.

“¡Cállate y bebe tu sangría!”

You meet Alba that same night.

She’s nice and quick-witted, no one is safe from her clever remarks. It feels nice, the way she makes sure you’re included when everyone seems to forget you’re still learning Spanish from a green bird on your phone, and that, in most conversations, you relate more to vibes than actual words.

Flirting is a universal language, though.

If her hand brushes on your arm a couple of times you make sure to smile and get closer, and if you lean into her with the excuse of needing a translation she makes sure to whisper right into your ear. There’s a note in her voice that makes you feel at ease.

Of course, Ricardo ruins everything.

“I’m starting to think you’re running from tax collectors, not your ex”

It’s a good joke, you know it is nothing more than that. But it suddenly reminds you how messy your life is and how out of place you feel sometimes.

Not just far away from home, but also far away from everything familiar.

A job for a company you hated but paid good money; friends you didn’t see as you’d liked, but who knew damn well when to drag you out of your apartment – and out of your own head. A boyfriend who barely tolerated your love, but somehow always managed to say and do the right things at the right time.

Every morning, you wake up knowing what to wear for work, what numbers to punch into the computer to get the needed results, and how to act to be sure you’re not too much.

You’re not running away from just your ex, you’re running away from your life as known until finding out about the cheating. 

“¿Todo bien?”, Alba asks, noticing how you miss the opportunity to jab Ricardo. 

It takes you a moment to register her reassuring hand on your arm and the talks moving to a completely different topic.

“Yeah, sorry, just tired”

“You better get used to the Spanish nightlife”

“It’s pretty much all I’m doing so far”, you admit, slowly sipping a beer and making sure your annoying roommate doesn’t hear a word about this.

The rest of the dinner passes without too much trouble, despite not remembering most of the names and following even less of the conversations. 

Alba stays close and you blame the spicy food for the way your face reddens when she bids her goodbye with three kisses and a promise to meet up with less people.

“It’s a surprise”, Ricardo comments, his grin spreading across his face as soon as you settle onto the couch to debrief the day’s events.

It’s starting to look a lot like a new routine, a tradition in the making.

“What? Something my brother didn’t mention?”

“¡Ay, claro!”

“I hate you”

“I had no idea Alba is your type”

You have to give credit where due, he displays incredible reflexes. He dodges the pillow you throw at him, your punch barely grazes his arm, and your kick misses his shin by a mile.

To be honest with yourself, you’re not really sure who is your type. 

Not even getting in the mind-space to think about your ex, the past relationships you care about to recall all look pretty different. There’s no consistent pattern, not a clear preference in haircuts or any kind of colours, not a style that catches your attention more than another. 

The only thing most of your exes have in common is tiring you to the bones and leaving your life making you trust less and less in others. 

Maybe you do have a type.

~

It’s not a date, you both agree on that.

She doesn’t ask about the infamous ex, she’s good company and even a nicer distraction.

But your mind drifts and, as you recount the highlights of how that relationship crumpled in slow motion, it becomes clear as the day you shouldn’t be with someone until you’ve committed to a good therapist.

It’s not fair to anyone, but it’s definitely not fair to Alba.

You kiss her anyway, and she makes you promise to let her be your first date as soon as you’re ready to get back into the game again.

~

“Ricardo told me your ex is un cabrón”

If not for the possibility of blemishing your otherwise spotless record, you could have shoved Pedro down the hill you’re currently struggling to climb, losing too much dignity. 

The guy looks like he had one beer too many, but he’s surprisingly in shape and apparently unaffected by the whole hike so far. 

“Am I the only topic of conversation he has?”, you ask, mostly to buy a few more seconds to catch your breath.

“Creo que sí”

You raise the finger as you outpace him to keep going.

The sun has set, casting a warm, golden hue across the clear Barcelona sky. Despite Pedro knocking on your door when it was barely socially accessible to be at someone’s place, it takes the two of you more time than necessary to reach this point of the trail.

Not close enough to the top yet, but definitely too late to turn back without regrets. 

It’s mostly his fault.

The view is impressive, and the Catalan knows too many fascinating details to not be amazed by the nature around.

“¿Estás bien?

“Cabrón is a nice word”

“It’s not”

“No, it’s– I mean it’s not a bad enough word to describe him”, you clarify with a faint smile as Pedro slows his pace.

Your final destination is just a few steps away.

It may be the pleasant company, a good friend you’ve discovered in an unexpected place at the most unexpected time of your life. It may be the warm rays of sunshine that tickle your skin or the ache making your legs feel alive. It may be the weight on your chest, the one that crushed good intentions and caused too many sleepless nights, now becoming smaller under a new sense of resolve.

It may be for many different reasons, but for the first time in more than you’re comfortable looking back, it feels better.

“It was a good relationship”

He gives you a moment, sitting on the slightly damp grass next to your sprawled figure.

“It was good, until it was really bad. But it’s hard to do anything about it when you’re doing such an impressive job at hiding all the signs”

“A bad relationship can’t be blamed on just one person”, he tries to reason.

“It can”

“Guapa, mira–”

“No, it can. He was controlling, aggressive, and incredibly talented at making me take all the blame and the shame”, you admit, for the first time out loud, “My only fault was pretending to ignore when I finally saw it all for what it really was”

As you gather the strength to rise to a more dignified position, you almost expect Pedro to hug you or be the over affectionate Spanish stereotype he usually is.

Instead, he’s looking somewhere away in the sky, pensive.

You feel the need to reassure him, “I’m fine now, I–”

“No, lo siento, lo siento”, he turns with a small, yet genuine smile, “We don’t know each other that well”

“You’re hurting me now, I thought we were friends”

“We are, tonta!”

Pedro raises and his large hands, marked with tiny cuts, extend to pick you up. He paves the way down the hill with no words, and for the first time since you meet the man, the silence it’s a surprise. 

It’s not uncomfortable, maybe just a little unsettling.

And short-lived.

“We don’t know each well”

“You already said that”

He shoves you playfully, not impressed by your attitude, but used to it.

“Lo que quiero decir es que– you’re a good person, I can tell, even if we don’t know each other for long”

“Don’t get soft on my right now”

“You’re a good person and you love good, you have to keep loving”, he states, so casually, “Once you know love, you should never try to forget”

~

“At this point, I’m pretty sure you hit your head hard enough to go mental and somehow no one noticed”

“I miss you so much, Elena”

Your phone is precariously balanced on a glass of wine as you cook a recipe Paco scribbled on a piece of paper. In Catalan. 

It makes less sense than his finance decisions, but you’ll take it.

Your best friend’s face is half out of frame but you can clearly point out every step of her beauty routine. It’s a grueling and painfully long process, her boyfriend is way more patient than you about it.

But tonight Ricardo is out for his bi-weekly pottery class, and you’re happy to indulge her just for the sake of spending some time together, even if it’s through a screen.

Not like there’s a slight chance you’d say it out loud.

“What are you trying to cook?”, the eyebrow in frame raises skeptically.

“No idea”, you admit, coming to the conclusion the number you’re looking at is five and there’s no way this dish needs so many onions.

“Good, now, let’s track back to your mental instability”

“And you ask why I am in different country?”

The wasp she lets out is so loud, and the silence that follows is so deafening you look at the screen to make sure the call is still on. She can be so dramatic.

“Don’t joke about it, I’m still grieving”

“I’m still alive”

“Barely”, she mutters.

Elena is a good friend, despite the theatrics. 

When the world seems a little too much to handle, she turns into a safe space for you to be at peace. When you’re overthinking the stupidest choices, she always has a comforting, new point of view. 

To people who don’t have the privilege to know her well enough, she may look shallow and too noisy. The truth is, you’ve never met someone so aware of herself and her life that she perfectly understands how to give due weight to even the smallest things. 

And she doesn’t keep quiet, she loves loud and proud. 

You learned to hold yourself back. You were forced to.

That’s the biggest lesson she’s still teaching you.

“Just saying, you’re surrounded by hot, Spanish people–”

“Happens when in Spain”

“You’re allowed to have fun!”

“I have plenty, thank you very much”

A strange smell comes out of the pan as the lid is lifted, prompting you to close it and pretend it’s not even there for the rest of the night. Not planning to call a poison center, ordering takeout is how you opt to end this cooking attempt.

If Elena thinks you paused the video to piss her off, it is on her.

When your best friend’s face pops up on the screen again it’s so serious you’re tempted to hang up for real.

“I mean it in a good way, don’t get me wrong, but taking a leave of absence and flying to Barcelona is the most selfish thing I witnessed you do in forever”

“I’m actually thinking of quitting for good and going freelance”

“See?”, she gushes, although she can’t be taken seriously with a panda-shaped face mask on, “You like to do your nerd-numbers-shit again, you’re trying new things, even if you clearly can’t be trusted in the kitchen–”

“Fuck you, that man can cook, but for sure can’t write”

“You’re making friends, not as amazing as me, but we’ll take it!”

Trying to argue could be useless and, honestly, you have no arguments.

“You’re fine, you’re doing good”, she smiles, and you miss her a little bit more.

This time you say it out loud, and she cries.

~

The guys are planning something.

By now, you know them well enough to sense trouble the moment you step into the restaurant.

Paco wears a grin that’s almost creepy, a beam blasted across his face, while Pedro is cleaning the tables with unnecessary vigour and his usual commitment is taken to an unusual level.

They’re clearly waiting for something to happen, lingering around as you try to explain to Paul, the musketeer you pointed as the most reliable when money is on the line, how to delay a payment reminder.

“Okay, what is wrong with them?”, you ask, trying to recall a single reason why you put up with these people’s ethics.

You only need one.

“No te entiendo”

“Tú me entiendes perfectamente”

“Your español is getting so good, ¿lo sabes?”, Pedro chimes in, and you’re sure whatever they want, you’re not going to like it. 

Paul is usually the voice of reason, the emotionally adult one. Why is he looking at you like he’s about to commit the worst betrayal?

“We were thinking–”

“I’m scared when you guys think”

“We are allies, feminists, and strong supporters of women in male dominated fields, equality–”

“Please, shut up”, you interrupt as if the conversation is physically hurting you.

“Barça is playing the Copa on Saturday. We organise una fiesta every year when they come back, es una tradición”, Pedro cuts in, feeling like the best way to get to the point is to dive straight into it.

“What if they lose?”

“Ellas no pierden”, Paul’s voice is so final you don’t dare to object.

“Cool, fine, why are you acting like this party is something I’ll not like?”

“We pay for it all”

It’s nice.

It is a really nice gesture, knowing how much they care about their community and their friends and apparently the women’s side of their favourite club. 

Then you remember they have a huge debt to pay up because an asshole took advantage of their kind hearts and the accounts are just starting to make sense again.

“It’s a good thing”, you admit out loud, “But–”

When Paul starts a passionate rant about the team’s season so far and how sure he is they are gonna win those trophies all over again, apparently setting a new record for the sport itself, it’s not strange to feel thrilled too.

Even Paco joins the excitement at the prospect of adding another title to the collection.

You have been in Barcelona long enough to understand football is a big deal here, and you can’t deny it’s really wonderful to see three big guys hyping up their club – women’s and men’s side alike. 

Pedro looks at you like he knows you’re about to crumble.

“They better win then”, you agree, pretending it takes a lot of thinking.

They wrap you in a group hug so welcoming you don’t have the heart to tell them the restaurant can’t really afford to pay out an entire party right now, on a weekend, literally planned for a football team and their mothers. 

You’ll make sure the numbers check out later.

You meet Alexia that same night.

Alba makes the introductions, and you shake her hand a moment too late and too long than socially acceptable.

You’re busy shifting your gaze back and forth. 

They look alike. A lot. But somehow, they’re also so different.

You make a mental note to dig up some old pictures of a younger version of yourself and your brother.

“She’s the reason this party won’t bankrupt the guys”

“I’ve heard only good things about you”, Alexia admits.

If a slight redness tints your face it’s due to the compliments, not the feeling of her eyes on you, or the way your body seems to jolt awake.

“All lies, probably”, you try to compose yourself – get a fucking grip, “They’re just impressed ‘cus they can’t count to save their lives”

The laugh that leaves the older woman’s lips is the most melodic sound you’ve ever heard. Something in the way her face lights up and her features relax makes your chest ache with a surprisingly comfortable feeling.

A desire to make her laugh again.

And that is what you do all night.

The girls are way too excited – deservedly so, after another title added to their already impressive collection. The live music is loud, the food and the drinks come in flows. You’re too busy to mentally estimate the costs.

When one of Alexia’s teammates decides you’re her new favorite person in the whole restaurant, you’re perfectly fine with it. Just because she’s funny, not because she seems to have an impressive amount of stories to tease her captain with.

When Paul hands you another beer, you sip it without a care of keeping count. Just because you’re allowed to get loose, not because you noticed Alexia is making sure everyone will not regret a drink too much tomorrow. 

When Alba drags you to the makeshift dance floor, you let yourself feel the music and the bodies around. Just because the party is definitely worth it, vibrant, not because her sister joins the group at the same time.

You go home, much later than intended, with an unfamiliar feeling prickling beneath your skin and a somehow familiar pair of eyes stuck in your head.

~

The first time you end up in the stands for a football game is purely by accident.

An unmistakable electric buzz fills the air, lingering all the way from the parking lot to the seats that seem to keep filling. Everyone is smiling and chanting, sporting just two different colours but expressing their support in an unique way. 

The games you endured watching on TV to spend a few hours with your brother as a kid can’t compare to the real thing.

You never imagined finding yourself in such a place, but when in Rome. Or, well, when in Barcelona.

It’s all on the Putella sisters, to be honest.

You meet Alba in the most unusual place you could think of, or being yourself in the first place. A sports shop.

Planning to go on the hike a stranger at the restaurant pointed out, you need appropriate trekking shoes. Since the decluttering phase is officially over, you looked up one of those obnoxious places that sell overpriced sports-related shit.

Not the kind of shop you’d picture Alba willingly entering.

“Mind you, I actually like sports”, she objects.

“Do you?”

She giggles as your head tilts in a mocking way, “Vale, I like watching more than doing the sports”

“No way!”

The bags she’s dragging out of the shop are the only thing stopping her from not-so-playfully smacking you. It’s surprisingly easy to tease each other.

She reminds you of Elena, who called this morning to discuss how to act now she discovered where her boyfriend hides the ring. As if she hasn’t been snooping around for months.

Not entirely her fault, the poor guy left the jewelry’s receipt with the car keys at the entrance.

“Are you?”, the younger woman asks.

“What?”

“A sports person”

“My brother used to kick footballs at me when we were kids, the only sport I ever pretended to be remotely interest in”

Her smile dims slightly.

For some reason, that seems to have been the wrong thing to say.

“Have you been to a Barça game yet?”

“What if I’m a Madridista?”

That’s even worse, apparently, since Alba dramatically drops the bags to gasp in shock. Her acting of a heartbreak is surprisingly convincing.

A second voice chimes in out of nowhere, “Don’t even joke about it”

Alexia’s comment is dead serious, you can tell, with just the hint of a grin on her lips as a clear giveaway that she’s more than comfortable teasing a person she barely knows.

You’re definitely not going to complain.

The hat she’s wearing hides half her face, but you can see her lighting up behind it.

“What if I’m not joking?”

“Alba, you said she is a nice person”, the midfielder complains, a huff escaping her lips as she adjusts the weight of the bags she’s carrying. 

Did they just raid the whole shop?

“Bold to you to assume I can’t be a nice person and a Madridista”

“Please, don’t fight her on this, she’s gonna be insufferable”, Alba complains, playfully rolling her eyes at her sister’s antics and your teasing.

“No, she needs to be educated. She’s coming to El Clásico with us”

As simple as that.

You find yourself in the home section of the stadium for one of the most anticipated games of the season.

Or that’s what Alexia is ranting about all the way to your seats, going off about the rivalry and basic football knowledge you have to thank your borther for drilling into your brain against your will.

It’s all worth it when her blush spreads across her face as she realises, in the middle of her fourth attempt to explain with yet another example, that you actually do know what offside is.

Alba watches the interaction closely, amused by how easy it is for you to tease Barcelana’s captain and how comfortable she seems to be around you, despite not having known each other for long.

A couple of minutes before kick-off, Alexia returns from wherever she went – one mission in mind. She takes her place on your side, handing you a Blaugrana jersey, “You can’t sit here without wearing the right colours”

Maybe wearing a white t-shirt was a bit too much.

You burst out laughing, opting to put in the item immediately to avoid upsetting the filled seats around you, “How’d you find your own at a men’s game?”

“I happen to be pretty beloved around here”

“Did you hear that, Alba? La Reina is bragging!”

The only reason she doesn’t retort is due to the referee’s whistle announcing the start of the game, followed by a surprisingly enjoyable night with the two sisters.

~

Summer in Barcelona is nothing like you pictured it.

The streets are filled with tourists, too many people crammed in too little spaces. Complaints about the crowds and the chaos drown out any excitement. You have to remind Pedro that it’s awful, but it’s good for business.

Sometimes, it’s too hot to even think of leaving the comfort of your place. Fans blow in every room because, of course, the air conditioner broke the day it was turned on. 

Sometimes, it’s so loud you don’t need to ignore the voices of doubt in your head, subdued by everything that’s happening around you.

Sometimes, it’s exactly the kind of life you can see yourself living.

Your brother came to visit for a week, spending more time teasing you with Ricardo than doing anything else. You hate it, but you missed him too much to complain.

Maybe you pulled some strings to make his dream of visiting Camp Nou come true, just so you could look cool, but then what?

He’s as happy as a kid in a candy store, and all you have to do is endure an overexcited guided tour and bribe Alexia with overpriced drinks the night after. Totally manageable.

Your therapist announces her vacation like it’s not the worst news she’ll be sharing, leaving you with tasks to occupy the time. You dutifully completed them all, never quite managing to shake the nerd label off, and, quite frankly, you pay her too much to not do her homework.

Some tasks seem a little over the top, though – signing up for a dating app is definitely not how you’ll get over your ex.

You started hanging out with a group of passionate excursionists. Perhaps a bit too excited about life in general, but nice enough to follow during their hikes.

Pedro joins when he can, most of the time, someone from the Barcelona team manages to invite themselves. 

Since you and María aren’t allowed to be on your own, Ingrid or Esme supervise. It may be an overreaction, but the last time you two were alone, you sprained your ankle and the defender got nasty cuts on her legs before the trip even started, so you can’t really judge them. 

If you say Alexia is a better hike partner than most is just to piss María.

That summer in Barcelona makes you miss your family and friends back home a little more than usual, but it’s also the first time in months that you feel like you’re actually living your life – not just letting it flow right through you. 

~

When the new school year starts, Irene and her wife come to the restaurant a couple of times before Paul suggests that you could be the perfect person to help their son with his math homework.

Your attempt to explain that you really are not qualified to teach in a different language goes completely ignored.

They’ve already tried different tutors, and Mateo seems to hate them all. You accept, mostly because of the kid’s puppy-dog eyes.

The two of you fell into an easy routine. Once a week, he would lend you basic grammar school manuals and children’s books to help with your Spanish, and you would explain math to him in the simplest way possible.

It goes well.

Mateo decides pretty soon you’re his new favourite person, and you basically become one of Irene’s as well.

That’s how you find yourself on the sideline during a Barça training session, reading a book about a dog that doesn’t know how to bark while Mateo is too pleased with himself, checking all the math exercises he nailed. 

“Good one?”

You raise your gaze, shielding your eyes from the sun enough to point out Alexia’s silhouette.

The weather is still too warm for your comfort, making you question the girls’ mental stability for running lap after lap under such conditions with a smile on their faces. 

Sports people are scary.

“You look too good to be someone who just finished training”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Derogatory”, you clarify, pushing your stuff aside so that Alexia can sit beside you on the sideline. 

She’s drinking some sort of sport drink like she’s just eaten sand, and this close, she looks human. She’s grinning, enjoying the sun picking at her skin and Mateo’s passionate explanation of the math exercises he’s done all by himself.

The training session is wrapped up, she stays until Irene comes back from the changing room, washed and dressed, ready to take the little boy home.

The blonde lingers a bit longer, talking about books she loved growing up and how she takes management courses when she can. You find out Penélope Cruz is both your favourite actress, but the midfielder acts shocked when you tell her you haven’t watched her favourite film. 

That night, you put it on and change the language setting, live-texting Alexia all your reactions.

Halfway through, you’re pretty sure she’s watching it too.

~

Almost nine months after booking that life-changing one-way ticket to Barcelona, you buy another one to go back home.

With a return ticket in hand.

It’s your mother’s birthday, so you kind of have to.

Recently, she’s been repeating a new favorite line, rambling about the uncertainty of life and the precariousness of old age. She’s barely in her 60s and has less back pain than most people of your generation, but she’s not willing to listen to reason. 

You come to the conclusion you can’t lose any more points against your brother in the unspoken sibling race for your parent’s love. So you book the flight, pack a suitcase big enough, because you literally have nothing to wear left behind, and mentally prepare for the investigation your family will conduct. 

The tension in your shoulder melts away the moment your brother wraps his arms around you in the airport terminal. 

“You grow up so much”

And, just like that, he’s your annoying, stupid older brother again.

“I didn’t miss you at all”

“I can see you holding back tears”

“You’re literally crying!”, you accuse with a grin on your lips, lightly punching him.

“Just wait until mum sees that new tattoo”

The truth is, your mother is too busy peering deep into your soul to care about the tattoo. 

It takes two days of constant reassurance that you’re working, eating, and sleeping properly; a ceramic salamander figurine – maybe overpriced, but a gift meant to make an impression; and Elena backing up your story to calm her worries.

Barely enough to get you through the rest of the week unstretched.

“She’s just worried”, your best friend tries to reason, sipping a flashy pink drink that you’re not even sure is made from real fruit.

“I moved to Barcelona, not a war zone”

“Oh, so now it’s permanent?”

The shit-eating grin spreading across her face should annoy you, but you have to admit she has a point.

At first it was just an impulsive decision, an urge to run away from everything and everyone. Then, without really realising it, the Catalan city started to feel a lot like a place to settle in, to let your wings spread wide open.

Now you almost call it home.

The waitress interrupts your flow of thoughts, saving you from Elena’s pointed gaze long enough to be properly distracted by the huge amount of food presented. He leaves with a charming smile, but you’re genuinely too focused on the salty chips to notice.

“Are you pregnant?”, you ask, looking as she almost chokes to avoid comically spilling her drink on you.

“The Spanish heat fried your brain?”

“What? You didn’t even have soft drink when we were underage”

Elena pauses for a moment, weighting if knocking over you the rest of the pink beverage could be worth it. It takes genuine pondering.

She decides to take the highest road.

“Are you dying?”

“Are you taking comedy classes in Barcelona?”

The last time your best friend was this over the edge it was because of a pregnancy scare. First year of university, and her boyfriend at time wasn’t really the guy you’d take home for Christmas. A memory that doesn’t help her case right now.

You slip under the dim lights of the bar, a classy spot where she hangs out with the women from her pilates class. A shiver runs down your back, a bad feeling overcoming deep inside you. 

Then, she speaks up.

“I’ve already bought a wedding dress”, she admits, as if she’s confessing a crime, “It’s a size smaller and I have to–”

“Elena, for fuck’s sake, I thought you were actually dying!”

“It is, indeed, a tragedy”

“He hasn’t even proposed yet”

“Details”, she chugs the rest of the drink, smirking and grabbing the last chips you’re too shocked to care about.

The same waitress hovers around your table, drawn in by the loud exchange and your clear distress, “Excuse me, is everything okay?”

He’s young, charming enough for this to be just a gig while he waits and hopes for his acting career to take off. However, he looks genuinely concerned, his gaze shifting between the deep frown and your friend amused grin.

“All good, she’s just dramatic”, Elena points at you with the straw, before delivering the final blow, “And she is single”

The poor boy’s face lights up, naively thinking the commotion was a creative way to play matchmaker.

What a mistake.

You don’t even dignify her with a glance, rolling your eyes before addressing him directly, “Excuse her, she’s panicking because her long-time, overly in-love boyfriend still hasn’t popped the question”

“That’s not–”

“And I’m not interested”, you finish, kind but firm.

He leaves with a nod, cheeks slightly red.

Elena watches him disappear as you sip your own drink, studying you the way she used to when you were confused teenagers who didn’t know how to deal properly with all those feelings and real-life emotions.

“Oh”

The reason you still encourage her goes beyond your understanding.

You’re not starting to question it now, “What?”

“You like someone”

“Elena, I swear–”

“No, no, it’s just–”, her gaze softens as she looks at you, teasing and playful attitude making space for her most supportive side, “It’s good to see you, you know, welcoming back some happiness”

It doesn’t matter how she’s always capable of reading you like a book, like you’re a poem she knows by heart but she’s never tired of.

After all the years and the lessons you’ve learned together, it feels so comforting to know there’s someone out there who deeply understands you. Who truly sees you.

You don’t deny it, you don’t retort to her observation. 

That's not the point right now.

~

You break the promise made to Alba.

Kind of.

It’s early in the morning, the sun has barely risen in the sky, but it’s the perfect time to arrive at the little market. It arrives every two weeks, with vibrant stalls full of everything – though you understand half the things the vendors say. The freshness of the fruit and the unique clothing finds you always manage to come home with are totally worth it.

Alexia is buying vegetables and, judging by the passion she shares with the old lady in front of her, discussing important geopolitical questions.

You enjoy the exchange, taking a moment before approaching.

She jokes about the fact you’re up before the clock even hits double digits, laughing at your retort about fighting with the elderly over groceries. 

The footballer suggests breakfast in a cosy place not far from the market, the promise of fresh bakeries enough to convince you.

It’s not a date.

But you walk side by side, bags lightly colliding sometimes, and before you know it, you’ve arrived at the café. Alexia holds the door open, pointing out her favorite pastries. She scoffs, unamused, when she realizes your questions distracted her long enough for you to pay for both your orders.

It’s not a date, obviously.

But you sit at a table in the far corner of the café for almost three hours, talking about everything and nothing. The bubble you find yourself in bursts when Ricardo calls, complaining that you’re late for lunch, despite insisting on making a reservation.

“We should do this again”, she says as she hugs you goodbye, a smile lighting her entire face.

It’s not a date, but it definitely feels like it.

You remembered the promise you made to Alba, to save your first date for her once you feel ready, just a second after realising how badly you wish to go on a real one with her sister.

~

You refuse categorically to celebrate your birthday at the boys’ restaurant.

They could make a big deal out of it, insist on paying for everything, and you couldn’t let that happen. After months of knowing them and the “Barcelona way” of celebrating loved ones, you can’t let them be in charge of this. 

Also, the bills are finally adding up. They can afford it, you can’t let them do it – at least, not emotionally speaking.

So you host a little party at your place – your place, because Ricardo says you basically own it as much as he does after the bathroom’s makeover. 

The small kitchen quickly turns into chaos the moment Paco takes charge and ropes Ricardo into helping. Pedro shows up with decorations and a banner that was most likely used for his little sister’s. Paul, however, closes the restaurant that same afternoon, brushing off your protests and reassuring you that your birthday is more important than the evening’s earnings.

You can’t find it in yourself to fight them.

The apartment fills with laughter and a vibrant energy that eases the weight pressing on your chest when overthinking takes hold. Balloons cover nearly the entire floor, raised voices and the scent of spices travel from the kitchen. 

Your friends from the hiking group arrive in waves, immediately hitting it off with some of Barcelona’s team. You’ve grown close to a few of them through your relationship with Irene’s family and the one Ingrid and Frido practically forced on you.

Some regular customers from the restaurant also show up, people you’ve grown pretty comfortable with after spending so much time there during the first weeks of taking over the accounting job.

There’s also a nice girl you met at a concert, who Elena stalks on social media to make sure she’s not a serial killer.

Alba and Alexia are the last ones to arrive.

Your life in Barcelona is full of new people, new experiences and adventures.

At your lowest point, you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be loved out loud.

And those people are the loudest you ever met.

The noise around the apartment subsides just as most of the guests leave. The music is turned down to a minimum, because of the late hour and Pedro’s questionable taste, as he hasn’t let go of the speaker once all night.

The small group gathers around the couch, drinks in hand, still willing to celebrate with you. 

“I’m just saying, I think they taste the same”

The entire room erupts in protests at Ricardo’s comment.

“Absolutely no”, Pedro chimes in, seated on the edge of the armchair with a half-drunk beer in hand, “Black olives are made to be a pizza topping, green ones are perfect for everything else”

“What do you even know about pizza topping?”, you interrupt with a grin, “You put pineapple on yours”

Somehow, the complaints grew louder, the room buzzing with indignation.

“What’s wrong with that? Pineapple is a great pizza topic, you’re just too pretentious to admit it!”

“Can we move on from the pizza argument?”

“Oh, no, let’s get into it!”, you wave your hand dismissively, “Pedro, please, tell everyone what you put on first, cheese or sauce?”

“Fuck you”

“You work in a restaurant”, Alba says, her voice laced with disbelief. 

“I’m not the one cooking, am I?”

“Thank God!”

The conversation quickly turns on poor Pedro, who now finds himself defending his questionable taste and own belief.

Alexia, who’s been quietly sipping from her glass, looks at the scene with a raised eyebrow before turning to you, relaxed on the couch beside her, “Honestly, I never imagined pizza to be the thing that ends a friendship”

“I’m just happy we’re not talking about pineapple anymore, that’s a sin”

“You started this”, she points out, giggling. 

Ricardo shrugs from his spot on the floor, amused but staying out of it for now. 

“It’s my birthday, I can do whatever I want”

“Oh, por favor”, Alexia says with a playful roll of her eyes, nudging the paper crown still perched on your head, “This must have cut off circulation to your brain”

You gasp, your dramatic antics in full display, fueled by the time, the alcohol, and, likely, the footballer’s shoulder still brushing against yours.

“You’re just jealous you’re not the only reina in the room”

“Keep dreaming”, Alexia responds with a grin.

The proximity lingers in a way that’s not just playful. It’s comfortable, like an inside joke no one else is allowed in on.

Ricardo watches the interaction from the corner of his eye, his gaze lingering on you and the blonde for a moment longer than necessary. He notices how her cheeks redden slightly, the way you look a little different – softer, at ease.

Alba catches the moment too, still pretending to be involved in the pizza argument. She notices the quiet exchanges and private moments that have unfolded all evening. The way you and her sister have fallen into a different rhythm, a different world.

She’s seen it before.

There’s something between you two, something unspoken, but not quite hidden. She wonders how long it’s been there, how long it’s been that way.

But, like Ricardo, she keeps her thoughts to herself.

The rest of the group laughs, the debate seems to fade into a more relaxed conversation that doesn’t involve food or questionable life choices.

As the night goes on, the teasing continues, but, underneath the surface, there’s something deeper.

There’s the way you lean in a little closer to Alexia when someone says something ridiculous, how your eyes linger on her when Pedro makes a joke and you think no one is watching.

There’s the way Alexia’s knee brushes yours when you laugh, how her fingers dance on your arm simply because you’re close enough to.

There’s the exchange of gazes and smiles, quiet signs of complicity in the loud room.

~

Ricardo waits to the tune of three days before cornering you.

You mention being a bit homesick after your birthday and the Putellas sisters literally drag you to have dinner with them at their mom’s. Eli is the sweetest woman ever, going above and beyond to the point of making that one pie you mentioned once being your favourite. 

The house is filled with memories and tender gestures, a haven of support and a desire of caring for your own that squeezes your heart with a bittersweet beauty. Spending the night there makes it clear how Alexia and Alba were raised, revealing the roots of their kindness.

“You had fun?”

It’s a miracle you don’t drop dead on the floor right there, Ricardo’s voice echoing from the middle of the couch in the dark room.

“Why are you lurking like a fucking killer?”, you shout at him when your heartbeat slows down enough to let you come up with proper words.

“I was waiting for you”

You don’t even dignify him with a response, watching how he’s sipping from a mug like a scene from the shittiest b-movie you can think of.

Crossing the room to sleep the unease away, the guy’s next words make you stop right where you are, “You need to come clean with her”

“What are you talking about–”

“You like Alexia”

It’s not a question, there’s no doubt in his voice.

There’s not a single reason to even try to fight his assumption or your own overthinking.

You reach for the seat next to him on the couch, noticing the second mug just when he offers it to you. It’s a fruity tea you enjoy hot, with way too much honey and not a drop of milk – exactly like the one in your hands. 

The silence wrapping around is comforting in a way that makes sense just because it’s the two of you, sipping tea in the quiet darkness of the room.

“I do”, you admit after a while, even if you don’t need to. 

“I know”

“That obvious?”

“Yeah”, your roommate confirms with a soft smile.

He doesn’t tease, he doesn’t accuse you of anything.

It’s so typically Ricardo that you feel a surge of affection, a need to embrace him and accepting the support of someone who, in a twisted and brotherly way, looks out for you – and your heart. So you do just that, jumping into his arms without a care of your reputation or of the almost-empty mugs.

The man, despite the surprise of your reaction, is ready to hold you for how long you need.

Turns out, you need it a lot.

“Sorry, sorry”, you say after a couple of minute, trying to pull yourself together, “I didn’t see it coming”

“Me being so observant and clever or you falling in love with Alexia?”

“I’m not in love with Alexia”

“Yet”

He’s lucky the tea is not hot anymore.

“I’m not in love with Alexia”, you repeat. 

Not yet, resonates in your head – your own mind betraying you. 

Yes, Alexia is beautiful. Yes, you two apparently clicked perfectly right the moment you met. Yes, recently the time together doubled the time spent with anyone else. You can admit you like Alexia, the therapy is worth the commitment and the money put into it. 

But being in love?

It’s a good feeling, the one that makes her cheeks flush crimson when your smile catches her gazing. Even better, the one that fills you with pride when Alexia’s laugh resonates in the room because of something you say or do. 

It’s an exciting force, the one that unsettles your stomach when she reaches for you just for the sake of touching – of feeling you close. Even better, the one that makes you two sure of finding the other in a room full of people just when needed. 

It’s so terrifying close to love, what it’s blossoming.

You want to fall in love with Alexia.

Ricardo raises from the couch, taking the mugs and putting them on the sink to be dealt with tomorrow. An annoying habit you’re sure he keeps up with just to annoy you.

He returns a minute later, “Are you going to do something about it?”

You don’t miss a bit, “Yes”

“Let Alba know first”, he says with a serious note in his voice, “She liked you”

~

The stadium buzzes with the loud roaring of fans and the sharp, clean scent of freshly cut grass under the rain. Barcelona dominates the pitch, their control of the midfield a suffocating grip as the opponents scramble, desperate for a counterattack. 

Between miscalculated slides and short passes, Alexia weaves through defenders in a blur of motion and focused energy. She’s calm when the ball is glued on her feet, sparkling to light, her presence igniting the pitch, as soon as her teammates take over. 

Patri finds her captain just outside the box and you lean forward, smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

You may be new to the whole thing, new in the Blaugrana’s home stands, but you learn quickly and you know exactly what Alexia’s movement means. 

The shot curves perfectly, the stadium exhales a collective gasp as the goalkeeper’s fingertips fail to reach it. The ball hits the bar loudly, the sound echoing before it flies out of the pitch.

Beside you, Alba lets out a whoop, clapping her hands with a grin stretching across her face, “She’s out for blood”

You laugh, not like anyone could disagree.

Barça is winning by three goals, outrunning the defence and shooting as if they need to score at least three more to sleep peacefully tonight. 

The poor goalkeeper will have nightmares for sure.

“She really want to take home that ball”

“She’s playing to impress”, Alba points out, not so subtly.

You chuckle, her remark flying over your head, “She’s just– good, I guess”

“Good? ¡Por favor!”, the younger Putellas scoffs, rolling her eyes, “She’s acting like a ballet dancer out there, doing pirouettes and running around like she has two sets of lungs”

As to prove her sister’s point, Alexia nutmegs another midfielder and executes another perfect movement, clearing the field for Aitana to set up Vicky for a chip goal.

The crowd erupts, but Alba’s attention remains fixed on you.

“¡Mirala!”, she says, pointing at the pitch where the team is hugging and celebrating, “That was another ‘look at me, soy la Reina’ moment!” 

“Your sister is the most competitive person I’ve ever met”

“Competitive? Chica, she’s showing off! And don’t even get me started on the way she keeps looking up here, fixing her hair between plays– It’s ridiculous”

You watch as Barcelona’s bubble dissipates and they get back at their positions, Alexia waves towards your seats, her face illuminated by a radiant grin.

Your cheeks flush slightly, a mixture of amusement and something else.

The game keeps on with the same level of excitement, and even more shots on target. They win narrowly, unconcerned by their soaked clothes, lingering happily in the rain to sign autographs and chat with supporters.

Alexia immediately seeks out you and Alba, trying to embrace you both despite your not-so-playful protests. The damp material of her kit clings, accentuating her defined muscles, and your thoughts stray to less innocent territories.

Alba sends her sister to the changing room, accepting the kiss landed on her forehead and watching as you nod like an idiot when she leaves with the promise to be back in no time, her hand lingering on your arm.

“¡Ay, esto es increíble!”, she interrupts your thought flow, tilting her umbrella just enough for a stream of rain to drop on your face. 

“Alba!”

“You’re not exactly subtle either, ¿sabes?”

The stadium noises fade into a distant hum. The air between you thickens, the playful banter morphing into something more charged and intentional. Your fingers fidget with the edge of your jacket, avoiding the younger woman’s gaze.

“How long have you known?”, you ask.

“The moment I introduced the two of you, idiota!”, she says, her voice teasing, “But I knew for sure at your birthday’s party”

“Nothing happened between us”

Alba’s smile softens, a gentle understanding dawning in her eyes, “I’m not blind and I know my sister pretty well. And honestly? I think it’s cute, you two glow when you’re together. She likes you. A lot. And you like her too"

Your shoulders relax, “I do. I really like her, Alba”

The wave of relief that washes over you is comforting.

You don’t owe her anything, and Alba definitely doesn’t owe you anything. But it’s good to know this love growing between you and Alexia is real, people around you see it too. People you care about support it.

Your smile spreads naturally on your face when you spot Barcelona’s captain approaching, hair still wet but changed in warm clothes.

Alba doesn’t miss it, nudging you with her elbow just before her sister’s close enough to hear, “It’s good you feel ready to date again, and I’m happy it’s her”

~

“I’m going to say it just once, so listen carefully”, you stop in the middle of the road with a stoic face, “Please, don’t make me regret our entire friendship”

The grin on Elena’s lips tells you everything you need to know, but you give her the benefit of the doubt. Because she’s your best friend, because she knows how to behave.

But she’s your best friend, and she’s not going to behave.

Her visit is not unpleasant, just unexpected.

It’s barely six in the morning when loud bangs on the front door wake you up and almost scare Ricardo to death. He takes it well enough, greeting Elena and going back to sleep the shock away. You, on the other hand, think of leaving her waiting outside until it’s socially acceptable to show up. Her immediate embrace is a clever attempt to smooth your annoyance.

She booked a red-eye flight for a hit and run, so you take her around Barcelona all day and agree to a late night out in a club Alba suggested you join with some of her friends.

“Relax”, she says, skipping steps like a kid as you approach the place.

“Elena, I’m serious”

“Why are you so stressed? Oh– oh, I know!”

She turns around in her heels, too graciously for someone with shoes so high and such low alcohol tolerance – you two may not be in your early 20s anymore, but you figured pregame was necessary this time around.

Her good resolution of not drinking alcohol crumbled as soundly as it started.

“Is she here too?”

“I don’t know what–”

“This mysterious woman you can’t shut up about, who is so great you have heart-shaped eyes but I can’t know her name”, she interrupts, grabbing you by the shoulder as you approach the club’s entrance. 

It’s not like you’re hiding Alexia, or your feelings for her.

She’s a frequent topic of conversation with your best friend, you’re comfortable sharing the moments between the two of you and the way your heart beats at a completely different rhythm around the Barcelona’s captain.

But Elena can be protective, and curious.

All she needs is a name, and she’s going to find out if Alexia has ever got a bad grade in primary school. The teasing for liking a football player? You aren’t ready for that either.

“Yes, she’s here and I need you to–”

“This is the best day of my life!”, she doesn’t even let you finish, leaves you right there, flashing the bodyguard at the entrance a huge smile and sweet talking her way in – even though they have your names as vip guests.

“This is going to be the worst day of mine”, you mutter to yourself, following after her.

The energy in the club is charged with a dangerous combination of freewill and alcohol. The place is packed and colored lights go on and off with the music, bright enough to see who’s in front of you, but not enough to make your decision clear. Not tonight.

Alba sees you first, waving her hand to catch your attention so you join them in a secluded table in a corner of the place.

You don’t even ask how Elena is already seated in the cool leather booth, talking animatedly.

“She’s funny”, Alba comments after greeting you with a hug.

“Don’t believe a word she says”

The younger girl’s laugh mixes with your best friend’s, and you know your fate is sealed when a guy hands her a drink. 

You look around the table, noticing some people from Alba’s close circle and some you met in passing at the restaurant or at a Barcelona’s game.

“She’s in the bathroom”

Your body betrays you before a coherent thought can leave your brain, your cheeks redding to the tips of your ears. 

“Told you, you’re not subtle”, Alba comments, too amused at your reaction.

As if she knows you’re talking about her, as if a magnetic energy forces your body to get closer and closer, Alexia’s gaze locks with yours as she approaches the table, followed by a vaguely familiar face.

She greets you with a dimpled smile and a welcoming hug, it may look like months passed but it’s been a matter of days. The black top she’s wearing emphasizes her toned stomach, and your fingers itch to trace the subtle sheen of sweat crossing her back – a sign she’s been dancing for a while now. 

You’re fashionably late, regardless of the time Alba suggested you to be here. Spanish people are stragglers, you have learned it at your own expense.

“Are you ready?”, the footballer asks.

“For what?”

“You owe me a dance”

“Absolutely not!”, you protest, trying to escape her hug.

“Oh, yes”, she smile, her arm around your waist dragging you even closer, “You made fun of my dancing moves, now you have to prove yours”

Next time, you will think twice before sending the blonde every single comment you found online about a TikTok video one of her teammates posted after a huge win. In your defence, you find it very cute.

The dance floor is filled with people, dancing in fluid movements like you learned Spaniard are comfortable with. A sea of arms fling around, bodies smoothly moving to feel each other. The music vibrates with a bass so deep that your ribs pulses at the same rhythm.

Alexia guides you in a less crowded section, far enough from the table so Alba and Elena can study every single movement, but out of earshot. 

You try to ignore the thought of your best friend gossiping with Alba.

Thinking, however, is the last thing you do when Alexia’s hand finds the small of your back, skin waking up by the slight hint of touch.

It doesn’t really matter how you managed to get this close, how the music runs through your bodies with an unmistakable energy and desire to get even closer. Your arms rise to frame the blonde’s face, her grin growing as soon as she notices your reaction.

It’s not like either of you is hiding the attraction, the pulsing needs to be together. To talk, to touch, to be around one another. It’s always been there, you just never acted on it.

“Are they like that all the time?”, Elena asks, still studying the way you seem to speak a different language with Alexia.

“I’m thinking about locking them somewhere until they kiss or whatever”

The disbelief is clear in Elena’s voice, “Are you sure they haven’t kissed yet?”

“If I know my sister, she must be really fucking scared”

“If I know my best friend, she must be really fucking stupid”

The two nod before bursting in a loud laugh, clicking their glasses. 

Almost an half an hour later, you find them like that, giggling and talking as if they have known each other for years and not just met. Alexia raises an eyebrow, silently questioning if she needs to hold back Alba’s enthusiasm – Elena is matching it without a problem, and that’s what really worries you. 

“And that’s how she ended up with the sister of her blind date”

“That’s not how it happened, at all”, you complain, hitting your best friend’s arm as she decide telling the worst stories possible is the best way to spend the night.

“Must have been a great date”, someone jokes.

“I’m a fantastic date, thank you so much”

“I can confirm”, Alba says with a teasing grin, raising her empty glass as you flip her off with an equally open smile on your lips.

Alexia, on the other hand, straightens up a bit at the exchange, switches her gaze between the two of you, almost taken aback, “You two dated?”

“I told you”, the younger girl retorts.

“I thought you were messing with me”

The change in her posture is subtle, but you’re close enough to feel it. Close enough to notice the way she moves her knee, breaking contact with yours, her fingers toying with the ring on her pinky.

Alba is a bit too drunk to pay attention to the footballer’s dampened mood, not affected anymore by that one date with you so long ago.

She told her sister about it when she first clocked in her interest for you, hoping to clear the way for her to do something about it – a sort of blessing.

Turns out, Alexia’s so sure she was teasing her, lying about it just to annoy her.

Thankfully, your best friend reads in your face the panic and drifts the conversation on a completely different topic. 

The rest of the night passes in a blur of laughs, questionable drinking choices, and more dancing. 

Every single attempt of catching Alexia’s eyes fails miserably. She’s not ignoring you, she doesn’t leave her seat next to you, and her touch is light but grounding. Your mind, however, spirals in a way it hasn’t in months.

It’s late when the group decides to call it a day, stumbling out into the cool, damp air of Barcelona. No one is sober enough to even think of driving, the decision to summon taxis rather than risk the roads is unanimous. 

A strange intimacy settled inside the car. You and Alexia sit in the back, while Alba, in the middle, sleeps on the older woman’s shoulder with soft snores. Elena is deep in conversation with the Catalan driver, despite not speaking a word of the language. The city lights flash outside, blurred by a light drizzle that you trace with a finger against the window.

Upon reaching Alexia’s apartment, you insist on helping her carry her sister inside, ignoring her half-hearted protests. Your best friend, armed with a winning smile and a ‘thank me later’ attitude, somehow manages to convince the driver to wait for you outside.

The place is quiet when you enter, amplifying the tension that crackled between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s never uncomfortable.

You and Alexia carefully settle Alba onto the bed, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows across the guest room. Each gentle adjustment of her sister’s blanket, each soft whisper to ensure her comfort, stretched out the delicate balance. 

It’s minutes later, right by the front door, that something snaps.

Before you can reach the handle on the way out, the footballer’s fingers wrap around your wrist.

There’s urgency in the way her body feels stirred by an electric discharge all of a sudden, her voice low, “You dated?”

“What?”, your confusion is mostly prompted by Alexia’s distressed tone.

“You dated my sister?”

“No, we– I mean, we went out like one time and I was, clearly, still fucked up by my ex– It’s not like we actually dated or something”

“She said–”

“She was joking”, your hands cupping the blonde’s face seems to do wonder at calming her, but you still feel the need to clarify the situation, “I kissed her, once, then found a good therapist and said to her I wasn’t interested like that”

“Are you interested like that?”

“Alexia, I just said–”

“No, no”, she interrupts shyly, never dropping her gaze, “Are you interested in me like that?”

Despite the voices still filling doubts in your head, kissing her is the easiest, most natural thing to do at that moment. 

Her lips are soft, warm, and taste faintly of sweet drinks. Her breath mingled with yours, a shared rhythm in the quiet intimacy of the kiss.

A current of interest, desire, and care pulls you closer. There’s complicity and belonging, mingling with curiosity, and the thrill of uncharted territory.

And there’s Alexia, right in front of you, vulnerable and exposed and trusting enough to lay her emotions in your hands. Making you feel so safe that you don’t even have to think about doing the same.

So you kiss again, trying to convey how sure you are about your feelings. Because the insecurities and the questioning silence when Alexia’s heartbeat syncs with yours and her hand caresses your face.

The sharp honk coming from the taxi outside is the only reason why you separate.

~

The late afternoon sun drapes over the Barcelona streets as you and Alexia stroll, fingers laced together. 

It’s a familiar feeling now, holding hands after a date.

You have explored hidden hikes, shared tapas after her games, and even attended a couple of flamenco lessons. Nothing too different from what you’ve already experienced. 

Except, of course, for the kissing.

And there’s been a lot of that.

Your phone buzzes, interrupting Alexia’s recall of Vicky’s last attempt of convincing her to do another stupid trend. You drop her hand, your fingers flying across the screen, muttering in concentration.

The footballer raises an eyebrow, complaining playfully, “Am I annoying you?”

“It’s this stupid bird!”

“Still fighting with ser y estar?”

“I’m sorry, my Spanish teacher is a tease and gets distracted five minutes after promising to help me study”

“She sounds like an incredible teacher”, she counters, too pleased with herself as she hints at your last private tutoring.

Despite your best effort, the other woman had other plans. The sentences she whispered right at your ear, with a raspy voice and a note of teasing in every single movement of her lips, made your resolution crumble in a matter of minutes. The books, not even opened, fell off the bed with a kick of her foot.

You do, however, learn some new words.

Your cheeks flush at the memory, “Shut up!”

“I said nothing”

You ignore her grin, still welcoming her embrace as she pulls you closer to help with the lesson.

“This app is useless! Why do those Spanish animals always do weird things? It’s making me questioning my entire existence”

“Tan dramática”, Alexia snorts, nudging you with her hip, “Why are you even using that thing? You can learn everything you need from me”

“I’m trying to actually learn something here”, you retort, faking annoyance, “Besides, you’re not always available for Spanish lessons. I want to get better, impress the locals”

“After more than a year?”

“Never too late”, you grin, “Just wait, I’ll be ordering in flawless Catalan in less time than it took you to ask me out”

Alexia stops in her tracks at your teasing, taken aback by your admission and by way of calling her out for the stalling after the first kiss you shared. She may have needed a little push then, trying to find the best moment to ask you for a real date to just blur it out in the rush of a late game night you attended.

You continue walking, too focused on the lesson to acknowledge the blonde’s momentary pause.

“Wait, I thought you were taking Spanish lessons”

“Yes, from you and the stupid bird, but I have an actually tutor for Catalan”

“You’re learning Catalan?”

“I live in Barcelona”, you say, matter of factly, but the flush creeping up on your cheeks betrays you.

The truth hangs in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken. It isn’t about fitting in, not anymore. It’s about her.

To understand her better, wrapping deeply into the fabric of her world. It’s commitment, to the city and to a future that you can’t picture without her in. It’s a promise, somehow, to bridge any gap and to learn her culture, her soul. 

Alexia’s gaze lingers, the weight of your growing feelings both exhilarating and inevitable.

She told herself she set a pace comfortable for you, respecting your need to get better with loving yourself and trusting others.

But you’ve been ready for this love for quite some time now.

The way you open up with her, hold her after a long day, and gently kiss the creases around her lips when she smiles. The way you not just proudly wear your heart on your sleeve, but you hand out your emotions to be seen. The way you make her feel safe enough to be vulnerable, to be taken care of. 

The way you’re learning to love her by learning to love everything that makes her who she is.

A nervous flutter, like trapped butterflies, stirred in your stomach as Alexia catches up to you. You could feel the energy radiating from her, the subtle scent of her perfume, a mix of wood and something undeniably her.

“Estic enamorada de tu”, she confesses, cheeks slightly tinted but her voice so firm, so sure. 

“I know what that means”

A smile, genuine and carefree, grows on both your lips. You study her face for a moment, finding nothing but pure care and a force that feels like arms keeping you safe and warm.

Nothing but love. 

The way you kiss her is almost too intense for a late afternoon in the streets of Barcelona, but barely enough to convey all the emotions that you discovered and learned to welcome in your life again. 

You may not be ready to say out loud you’re falling in love with her too, not yet. But the firmness of your hands on her face, the happiness lightning in your eyes, the resolution conveyed by your kiss.

She knows.

~

On the day you declare the restaurant officially debt free, Paco lifts you up off the ground, spins you around with ease and plants a loud kiss on your forehead.

Paul’s reaction is a bit tamed, even if he declares he’s going to name his firstborn after you. Still single and hopeless romantic, you’re not sure how much to read into his words.

Pedro cries, of course he does, but he also hugs you in a way that conveys almost too much not to shed a few tears yourself.

It’s not difficult for you to admit you own them more than they own you. 

Taking care of the restaurant’s ledger and the guys’ enthusiastic opinion about your accounting job opened a lot of small businesses’ doors. The idea of opening your own office never even crosses your mind, not planning on entangling yourself in a structured system anytime soon. The new apartment you rent has a small room that works just fine as a study.

You will still keep an eye on them, though, not sure enough your finance lessons really drilled in their heads. 

“So, you’re finally letting us treat you with dinner?”, Paul asks, serving you up with way too many pleasantries. 

“I already have someone who pays for me”, you retort, playful smirk on your lips.

“¡Ay, I thought you were taking me out tonight!”, Alexia complains next to you, keeping up with the joke as she pretends to not be interested in the food anymore. She can be such a dork.

“Wait, am I crushing a date?”, Alba intercepts from the other side of the table.

“You’ve been crushing our dates since the day we met!”

The laughs that erupt are loud enough to catch the attention of the other patrons, thankfully not really annoyed by the chaos. The truth is that, despite being a menace of a group, it is not like you can drag your friends in any other place without the risk of getting banned forever. 

It’s a familiar scene. The restaurant feels like a second home now, one that you built on your own around people that truly see you, support you and never miss a chance to tease you.

So you shake your head at Ricardo’s antics and glare at Alexia when she keeps teasing her sister, effortlessly distracting her with light movements of your fingers on her knee. 

The conversation flows between shared memories and inside jokes, carrying the night away until your table is the only one left. Not planning on leaving the place anytime soon. And as you sit there, surrounded by your friends, questionable recalling of stories, and the magnetic pull of Alexia’s presence, you just know that this is it. 

This is your life, your love, your chosen family.

Then Pedro has to ruin the moment, persuading everyone you have to make a toast for whatever reason. You try to fight it, embarrassed and quite frankly taken aback by the respect and genuine admiration this people seems to feel for you. 

A subtle nod of your girlfriend’s head, her hand finding yours beneath the table, is all you need to indulge with their antics.

“To us”, you say, raising a glass, “To finally getting our shit together!”

Laughter and cheers fill the restaurant, everyone congratulating each other for the most random things and joking around as if life could always be this simple.

Alexia’s hold tightens, her eyes meeting yours. Her face lights up in a way that never fails to make your own heart grow. 

“T’estimo”, you whisper, just for her to hear. 

Your love is usually so loud. A love that grows unexpectedly, but burns with a fierce and tender flame. But your promises are quiet. A silent acknowledgment of commitment that goes beyond, that stretches confidently into the future. 

Together.

she's not wroooong 😂 also ✨LESBIANS✨

LMAO Christen 😂

And through the clouds, I see love shine

About when, on a Wednesday in a restaurant at Barcelona, you watch it begin again

》 Alexia Putellas x Reader

》 words count: 12.8k

》 fight a losing battle [idiom]: also known as “losing game”, to try hard to do something when there is no chance that you will succeed, a failing effort or activity 

Your last relationship ends so badly that you consider abstinence from everything – processed sugar, alcohol, and even people. A period of deep cleansing, as if you could purify every cell of your body, like a celebrity spiraling from rehab to full-blown identity crisis.

This emotional state explains why you find yourself on a one-way flight to Barcelona, all your things crumbled in a backpack.  A rash impulse led you to declutter your belongings, a wishful attempt of turning into a completely new person just because your closet is now half what it used to be.

The decision to straight-up flee is rushed and quite terrifying, much like many of your recent choices.

Elena, your best friend since you were barely old enough to share made-up stories and Barbie-like careers, thinks you’re going mental. She nearly cries when you decide to donate your vintage Christian Lacroix jacket, but you’re convinced it’s the only way to get a new lease on life, so she mourns in silence.

The loudest reaction comes from your brother, who, if you could be mature enough to admit it, is the only voice of reason that almost resonates in your head. 

Almost.

Despite your stubbornness, you accept the offer of hospitality from one of his university friends, who gives away a spare room. You don’t plan on staying in a hotel for gods know how long, and you certainly don’t have the patience to search for an apartment. You’re not completely out of mind, if they want to help, so be it. 

Barcelona is brighter and feels as welcoming as you hoped, though that might just be the nicer weather and the fact you’re far from your problems. And your ex. 

The first month flies by in a rush of Catalan cafeterias, art galleries, and little boutiques that refill both your closet and your spirit. 

The people here are kind enough to put up with your attempts to speak the language, humoring you since you’re oh-so-sure that eleven consecutive days on a passive-aggressive app have made you fluent.

The places you visit and the ones strangers recommend are loud enough to ignore the voices of reason in your ear that start to sound a lot like your brother’s.

Still, there’s only so much one can do to avoid responsibilities and self-consciousness.

“You need a job”, Ricardo states one morning, finding you in the kitchen eating cold pizza, still in the clothes you wore two nights ago.

Your closet isn’t as limited anymore.

“I’ve saved enough money to enjoy my vacation, thanks for your concern”

“I thought that was the money saved to buy a house with your ex”

“I do not have an ex nor a house to worry about, do I?”

As soon as the pizza starts to taste like regret, you’re ready to end the conversation to sleep the rest of day away. 

Ricardo means well, you know that. 

He’s a nice guy and a good roommate, but, like your brother, he’s overprotective and likes to gossip a little too much. Sometimes, it’s surprising how much he knows about you. Most of the time, it’s just annoying.

“I’m want to say– maybe a routine could be good for you”

“I have a routine”, you retort, knowing it’s a fat lie.

You’re out of the bed before eleven only if you didn’t sleep through the night before, wandering around the city with no real destination until something, somehow, catches your attention.

It’s not a bad thing per se, but it’s not a sustainable lifestyle.

“You quit a well-paid accounting job, right?”

“Ricardo, I swear, I’m this close to reporting you for stalking”

His laugh is too loud this early in the morning, but the comfort of bantering with someone who knows you is too familiar to ignore. Even if most of his insight comes from your nosy brother.

They both need to find a hobby that doesn’t involve judging your questionable life choices.

He sips his coffee while studying you, assessing how risky it would be to keep pushing the subject.

Apparently, he feels brave enough.

“My friends’ restaurant could use some help”

~

You’re not sure if Ricardo downplayed it or if he’s just blissfully unaware, but his friends don’t need some help – they need a miracle. 

That’s what happens when you get scammed by your bookkeeper. 

Despite not being really familiar with Spanish tax laws and regulation, it’s clear as the day someone exploited every possible loophole in the profitable business run by three way-too-trusting men. The truth becomes evident as you examine their accounting ledger, your frown deepening with each passing moment.

You have been to their restaurant before, and have loved it.

The place is cosy and carefully maintained. The food is prepared by a grumpy man from Puerto Rico named Paco, who, after twenty years in Barcelona, learned just enough cursing in Catalan to run the kitchen. Local bands play live on the weekend and someone’s mom made sure everyone is nice and well mannered. The worn wooden tables are witness of countless shared meals. 

Pedro and Paul, the other two owners, can only be described as a comedy duo with a really questionable sense of style and even worse jokes. But they’re nice enough, definitely good company when you have a bad day. They can turn it upside down so quickly, for the better or the worst.

However, Ricardo tells you how much the restaurant means for his friends and the local community, guilt-tripping you into helping them to fix their finances.

The truth is, you love math and numbers so much that a challenge like this excites you more than it’s appropriate to admit.

Hence, you agree to help them for far less money you could have asked anyone in the same situation.

They take it as a promise to make sure the business keeps running and organise a dinner with way too many people to celebrate your help.

“I’ve barely started looking into it, Pedro”, you complain, not used to such enthusiasm.

“¡Cállate y bebe tu sangría!”

You meet Alba that same night.

She’s nice and quick-witted, no one is safe from her clever remarks. It feels nice, the way she makes sure you’re included when everyone seems to forget you’re still learning Spanish from a green bird on your phone, and that, in most conversations, you relate more to vibes than actual words.

Flirting is a universal language, though.

If her hand brushes on your arm a couple of times you make sure to smile and get closer, and if you lean into her with the excuse of needing a translation she makes sure to whisper right into your ear. There’s a note in her voice that makes you feel at ease.

Of course, Ricardo ruins everything.

“I’m starting to think you’re running from tax collectors, not your ex”

It’s a good joke, you know it is nothing more than that. But it suddenly reminds you how messy your life is and how out of place you feel sometimes.

Not just far away from home, but also far away from everything familiar.

A job for a company you hated but paid good money; friends you didn’t see as you’d liked, but who knew damn well when to drag you out of your apartment – and out of your own head. A boyfriend who barely tolerated your love, but somehow always managed to say and do the right things at the right time.

Every morning, you wake up knowing what to wear for work, what numbers to punch into the computer to get the needed results, and how to act to be sure you’re not too much.

You’re not running away from just your ex, you’re running away from your life as known until finding out about the cheating. 

“¿Todo bien?”, Alba asks, noticing how you miss the opportunity to jab Ricardo. 

It takes you a moment to register her reassuring hand on your arm and the talks moving to a completely different topic.

“Yeah, sorry, just tired”

“You better get used to the Spanish nightlife”

“It’s pretty much all I’m doing so far”, you admit, slowly sipping a beer and making sure your annoying roommate doesn’t hear a word about this.

The rest of the dinner passes without too much trouble, despite not remembering most of the names and following even less of the conversations. 

Alba stays close and you blame the spicy food for the way your face reddens when she bids her goodbye with three kisses and a promise to meet up with less people.

“It’s a surprise”, Ricardo comments, his grin spreading across his face as soon as you settle onto the couch to debrief the day’s events.

It’s starting to look a lot like a new routine, a tradition in the making.

“What? Something my brother didn’t mention?”

“¡Ay, claro!”

“I hate you”

“I had no idea Alba is your type”

You have to give credit where due, he displays incredible reflexes. He dodges the pillow you throw at him, your punch barely grazes his arm, and your kick misses his shin by a mile.

To be honest with yourself, you’re not really sure who is your type. 

Not even getting in the mind-space to think about your ex, the past relationships you care about to recall all look pretty different. There’s no consistent pattern, not a clear preference in haircuts or any kind of colours, not a style that catches your attention more than another. 

The only thing most of your exes have in common is tiring you to the bones and leaving your life making you trust less and less in others. 

Maybe you do have a type.

~

It’s not a date, you both agree on that.

She doesn’t ask about the infamous ex, she’s good company and even a nicer distraction.

But your mind drifts and, as you recount the highlights of how that relationship crumpled in slow motion, it becomes clear as the day you shouldn’t be with someone until you’ve committed to a good therapist.

It’s not fair to anyone, but it’s definitely not fair to Alba.

You kiss her anyway, and she makes you promise to let her be your first date as soon as you’re ready to get back into the game again.

~

“Ricardo told me your ex is un cabrón”

If not for the possibility of blemishing your otherwise spotless record, you could have shoved Pedro down the hill you’re currently struggling to climb, losing too much dignity. 

The guy looks like he had one beer too many, but he’s surprisingly in shape and apparently unaffected by the whole hike so far. 

“Am I the only topic of conversation he has?”, you ask, mostly to buy a few more seconds to catch your breath.

“Creo que sí”

You raise the finger as you outpace him to keep going.

The sun has set, casting a warm, golden hue across the clear Barcelona sky. Despite Pedro knocking on your door when it was barely socially accessible to be at someone’s place, it takes the two of you more time than necessary to reach this point of the trail.

Not close enough to the top yet, but definitely too late to turn back without regrets. 

It’s mostly his fault.

The view is impressive, and the Catalan knows too many fascinating details to not be amazed by the nature around.

“¿Estás bien?

“Cabrón is a nice word”

“It’s not”

“No, it’s– I mean it’s not a bad enough word to describe him”, you clarify with a faint smile as Pedro slows his pace.

Your final destination is just a few steps away.

It may be the pleasant company, a good friend you’ve discovered in an unexpected place at the most unexpected time of your life. It may be the warm rays of sunshine that tickle your skin or the ache making your legs feel alive. It may be the weight on your chest, the one that crushed good intentions and caused too many sleepless nights, now becoming smaller under a new sense of resolve.

It may be for many different reasons, but for the first time in more than you’re comfortable looking back, it feels better.

“It was a good relationship”

He gives you a moment, sitting on the slightly damp grass next to your sprawled figure.

“It was good, until it was really bad. But it’s hard to do anything about it when you’re doing such an impressive job at hiding all the signs”

“A bad relationship can’t be blamed on just one person”, he tries to reason.

“It can”

“Guapa, mira–”

“No, it can. He was controlling, aggressive, and incredibly talented at making me take all the blame and the shame”, you admit, for the first time out loud, “My only fault was pretending to ignore when I finally saw it all for what it really was”

As you gather the strength to rise to a more dignified position, you almost expect Pedro to hug you or be the over affectionate Spanish stereotype he usually is.

Instead, he’s looking somewhere away in the sky, pensive.

You feel the need to reassure him, “I’m fine now, I–”

“No, lo siento, lo siento”, he turns with a small, yet genuine smile, “We don’t know each other that well”

“You’re hurting me now, I thought we were friends”

“We are, tonta!”

Pedro raises and his large hands, marked with tiny cuts, extend to pick you up. He paves the way down the hill with no words, and for the first time since you meet the man, the silence it’s a surprise. 

It’s not uncomfortable, maybe just a little unsettling.

And short-lived.

“We don’t know each well”

“You already said that”

He shoves you playfully, not impressed by your attitude, but used to it.

“Lo que quiero decir es que– you’re a good person, I can tell, even if we don’t know each other for long”

“Don’t get soft on my right now”

“You’re a good person and you love good, you have to keep loving”, he states, so casually, “Once you know love, you should never try to forget”

~

“At this point, I’m pretty sure you hit your head hard enough to go mental and somehow no one noticed”

“I miss you so much, Elena”

Your phone is precariously balanced on a glass of wine as you cook a recipe Paco scribbled on a piece of paper. In Catalan. 

It makes less sense than his finance decisions, but you’ll take it.

Your best friend’s face is half out of frame but you can clearly point out every step of her beauty routine. It’s a grueling and painfully long process, her boyfriend is way more patient than you about it.

But tonight Ricardo is out for his bi-weekly pottery class, and you’re happy to indulge her just for the sake of spending some time together, even if it’s through a screen.

Not like there’s a slight chance you’d say it out loud.

“What are you trying to cook?”, the eyebrow in frame raises skeptically.

“No idea”, you admit, coming to the conclusion the number you’re looking at is five and there’s no way this dish needs so many onions.

“Good, now, let’s track back to your mental instability”

“And you ask why I am in different country?”

The wasp she lets out is so loud, and the silence that follows is so deafening you look at the screen to make sure the call is still on. She can be so dramatic.

“Don’t joke about it, I’m still grieving”

“I’m still alive”

“Barely”, she mutters.

Elena is a good friend, despite the theatrics. 

When the world seems a little too much to handle, she turns into a safe space for you to be at peace. When you’re overthinking the stupidest choices, she always has a comforting, new point of view. 

To people who don’t have the privilege to know her well enough, she may look shallow and too noisy. The truth is, you’ve never met someone so aware of herself and her life that she perfectly understands how to give due weight to even the smallest things. 

And she doesn’t keep quiet, she loves loud and proud. 

You learned to hold yourself back. You were forced to.

That’s the biggest lesson she’s still teaching you.

“Just saying, you’re surrounded by hot, Spanish people–”

“Happens when in Spain”

“You’re allowed to have fun!”

“I have plenty, thank you very much”

A strange smell comes out of the pan as the lid is lifted, prompting you to close it and pretend it’s not even there for the rest of the night. Not planning to call a poison center, ordering takeout is how you opt to end this cooking attempt.

If Elena thinks you paused the video to piss her off, it is on her.

When your best friend’s face pops up on the screen again it’s so serious you’re tempted to hang up for real.

“I mean it in a good way, don’t get me wrong, but taking a leave of absence and flying to Barcelona is the most selfish thing I witnessed you do in forever”

“I’m actually thinking of quitting for good and going freelance”

“See?”, she gushes, although she can’t be taken seriously with a panda-shaped face mask on, “You like to do your nerd-numbers-shit again, you’re trying new things, even if you clearly can’t be trusted in the kitchen–”

“Fuck you, that man can cook, but for sure can’t write”

“You’re making friends, not as amazing as me, but we’ll take it!”

Trying to argue could be useless and, honestly, you have no arguments.

“You’re fine, you’re doing good”, she smiles, and you miss her a little bit more.

This time you say it out loud, and she cries.

~

The guys are planning something.

By now, you know them well enough to sense trouble the moment you step into the restaurant.

Paco wears a grin that’s almost creepy, a beam blasted across his face, while Pedro is cleaning the tables with unnecessary vigour and his usual commitment is taken to an unusual level.

They’re clearly waiting for something to happen, lingering around as you try to explain to Paul, the musketeer you pointed as the most reliable when money is on the line, how to delay a payment reminder.

“Okay, what is wrong with them?”, you ask, trying to recall a single reason why you put up with these people’s ethics.

You only need one.

“No te entiendo”

“Tú me entiendes perfectamente”

“Your español is getting so good, ¿lo sabes?”, Pedro chimes in, and you’re sure whatever they want, you’re not going to like it. 

Paul is usually the voice of reason, the emotionally adult one. Why is he looking at you like he’s about to commit the worst betrayal?

“We were thinking–”

“I’m scared when you guys think”

“We are allies, feminists, and strong supporters of women in male dominated fields, equality–”

“Please, shut up”, you interrupt as if the conversation is physically hurting you.

“Barça is playing the Copa on Saturday. We organise una fiesta every year when they come back, es una tradición”, Pedro cuts in, feeling like the best way to get to the point is to dive straight into it.

“What if they lose?”

“Ellas no pierden”, Paul’s voice is so final you don’t dare to object.

“Cool, fine, why are you acting like this party is something I’ll not like?”

“We pay for it all”

It’s nice.

It is a really nice gesture, knowing how much they care about their community and their friends and apparently the women’s side of their favourite club. 

Then you remember they have a huge debt to pay up because an asshole took advantage of their kind hearts and the accounts are just starting to make sense again.

“It’s a good thing”, you admit out loud, “But–”

When Paul starts a passionate rant about the team’s season so far and how sure he is they are gonna win those trophies all over again, apparently setting a new record for the sport itself, it’s not strange to feel thrilled too.

Even Paco joins the excitement at the prospect of adding another title to the collection.

You have been in Barcelona long enough to understand football is a big deal here, and you can’t deny it’s really wonderful to see three big guys hyping up their club – women’s and men’s side alike. 

Pedro looks at you like he knows you’re about to crumble.

“They better win then”, you agree, pretending it takes a lot of thinking.

They wrap you in a group hug so welcoming you don’t have the heart to tell them the restaurant can’t really afford to pay out an entire party right now, on a weekend, literally planned for a football team and their mothers. 

You’ll make sure the numbers check out later.

You meet Alexia that same night.

Alba makes the introductions, and you shake her hand a moment too late and too long than socially acceptable.

You’re busy shifting your gaze back and forth. 

They look alike. A lot. But somehow, they’re also so different.

You make a mental note to dig up some old pictures of a younger version of yourself and your brother.

“She’s the reason this party won’t bankrupt the guys”

“I’ve heard only good things about you”, Alexia admits.

If a slight redness tints your face it’s due to the compliments, not the feeling of her eyes on you, or the way your body seems to jolt awake.

“All lies, probably”, you try to compose yourself – get a fucking grip, “They’re just impressed ‘cus they can’t count to save their lives”

The laugh that leaves the older woman’s lips is the most melodic sound you’ve ever heard. Something in the way her face lights up and her features relax makes your chest ache with a surprisingly comfortable feeling.

A desire to make her laugh again.

And that is what you do all night.

The girls are way too excited – deservedly so, after another title added to their already impressive collection. The live music is loud, the food and the drinks come in flows. You’re too busy to mentally estimate the costs.

When one of Alexia’s teammates decides you’re her new favorite person in the whole restaurant, you’re perfectly fine with it. Just because she’s funny, not because she seems to have an impressive amount of stories to tease her captain with.

When Paul hands you another beer, you sip it without a care of keeping count. Just because you’re allowed to get loose, not because you noticed Alexia is making sure everyone will not regret a drink too much tomorrow. 

When Alba drags you to the makeshift dance floor, you let yourself feel the music and the bodies around. Just because the party is definitely worth it, vibrant, not because her sister joins the group at the same time.

You go home, much later than intended, with an unfamiliar feeling prickling beneath your skin and a somehow familiar pair of eyes stuck in your head.

~

The first time you end up in the stands for a football game is purely by accident.

An unmistakable electric buzz fills the air, lingering all the way from the parking lot to the seats that seem to keep filling. Everyone is smiling and chanting, sporting just two different colours but expressing their support in an unique way. 

The games you endured watching on TV to spend a few hours with your brother as a kid can’t compare to the real thing.

You never imagined finding yourself in such a place, but when in Rome. Or, well, when in Barcelona.

It’s all on the Putella sisters, to be honest.

You meet Alba in the most unusual place you could think of, or being yourself in the first place. A sports shop.

Planning to go on the hike a stranger at the restaurant pointed out, you need appropriate trekking shoes. Since the decluttering phase is officially over, you looked up one of those obnoxious places that sell overpriced sports-related shit.

Not the kind of shop you’d picture Alba willingly entering.

“Mind you, I actually like sports”, she objects.

“Do you?”

She giggles as your head tilts in a mocking way, “Vale, I like watching more than doing the sports”

“No way!”

The bags she’s dragging out of the shop are the only thing stopping her from not-so-playfully smacking you. It’s surprisingly easy to tease each other.

She reminds you of Elena, who called this morning to discuss how to act now she discovered where her boyfriend hides the ring. As if she hasn’t been snooping around for months.

Not entirely her fault, the poor guy left the jewelry’s receipt with the car keys at the entrance.

“Are you?”, the younger woman asks.

“What?”

“A sports person”

“My brother used to kick footballs at me when we were kids, the only sport I ever pretended to be remotely interest in”

Her smile dims slightly.

For some reason, that seems to have been the wrong thing to say.

“Have you been to a Barça game yet?”

“What if I’m a Madridista?”

That’s even worse, apparently, since Alba dramatically drops the bags to gasp in shock. Her acting of a heartbreak is surprisingly convincing.

A second voice chimes in out of nowhere, “Don’t even joke about it”

Alexia’s comment is dead serious, you can tell, with just the hint of a grin on her lips as a clear giveaway that she’s more than comfortable teasing a person she barely knows.

You’re definitely not going to complain.

The hat she’s wearing hides half her face, but you can see her lighting up behind it.

“What if I’m not joking?”

“Alba, you said she is a nice person”, the midfielder complains, a huff escaping her lips as she adjusts the weight of the bags she’s carrying. 

Did they just raid the whole shop?

“Bold to you to assume I can’t be a nice person and a Madridista”

“Please, don’t fight her on this, she’s gonna be insufferable”, Alba complains, playfully rolling her eyes at her sister’s antics and your teasing.

“No, she needs to be educated. She’s coming to El Clásico with us”

As simple as that.

You find yourself in the home section of the stadium for one of the most anticipated games of the season.

Or that’s what Alexia is ranting about all the way to your seats, going off about the rivalry and basic football knowledge you have to thank your borther for drilling into your brain against your will.

It’s all worth it when her blush spreads across her face as she realises, in the middle of her fourth attempt to explain with yet another example, that you actually do know what offside is.

Alba watches the interaction closely, amused by how easy it is for you to tease Barcelana’s captain and how comfortable she seems to be around you, despite not having known each other for long.

A couple of minutes before kick-off, Alexia returns from wherever she went – one mission in mind. She takes her place on your side, handing you a Blaugrana jersey, “You can’t sit here without wearing the right colours”

Maybe wearing a white t-shirt was a bit too much.

You burst out laughing, opting to put in the item immediately to avoid upsetting the filled seats around you, “How’d you find your own at a men’s game?”

“I happen to be pretty beloved around here”

“Did you hear that, Alba? La Reina is bragging!”

The only reason she doesn’t retort is due to the referee’s whistle announcing the start of the game, followed by a surprisingly enjoyable night with the two sisters.

~

Summer in Barcelona is nothing like you pictured it.

The streets are filled with tourists, too many people crammed in too little spaces. Complaints about the crowds and the chaos drown out any excitement. You have to remind Pedro that it’s awful, but it’s good for business.

Sometimes, it’s too hot to even think of leaving the comfort of your place. Fans blow in every room because, of course, the air conditioner broke the day it was turned on. 

Sometimes, it’s so loud you don’t need to ignore the voices of doubt in your head, subdued by everything that’s happening around you.

Sometimes, it’s exactly the kind of life you can see yourself living.

Your brother came to visit for a week, spending more time teasing you with Ricardo than doing anything else. You hate it, but you missed him too much to complain.

Maybe you pulled some strings to make his dream of visiting Camp Nou come true, just so you could look cool, but then what?

He’s as happy as a kid in a candy store, and all you have to do is endure an overexcited guided tour and bribe Alexia with overpriced drinks the night after. Totally manageable.

Your therapist announces her vacation like it’s not the worst news she’ll be sharing, leaving you with tasks to occupy the time. You dutifully completed them all, never quite managing to shake the nerd label off, and, quite frankly, you pay her too much to not do her homework.

Some tasks seem a little over the top, though – signing up for a dating app is definitely not how you’ll get over your ex.

You started hanging out with a group of passionate excursionists. Perhaps a bit too excited about life in general, but nice enough to follow during their hikes.

Pedro joins when he can, most of the time, someone from the Barcelona team manages to invite themselves. 

Since you and María aren’t allowed to be on your own, Ingrid or Esme supervise. It may be an overreaction, but the last time you two were alone, you sprained your ankle and the defender got nasty cuts on her legs before the trip even started, so you can’t really judge them. 

If you say Alexia is a better hike partner than most is just to piss María.

That summer in Barcelona makes you miss your family and friends back home a little more than usual, but it’s also the first time in months that you feel like you’re actually living your life – not just letting it flow right through you. 

~

When the new school year starts, Irene and her wife come to the restaurant a couple of times before Paul suggests that you could be the perfect person to help their son with his math homework.

Your attempt to explain that you really are not qualified to teach in a different language goes completely ignored.

They’ve already tried different tutors, and Mateo seems to hate them all. You accept, mostly because of the kid’s puppy-dog eyes.

The two of you fell into an easy routine. Once a week, he would lend you basic grammar school manuals and children’s books to help with your Spanish, and you would explain math to him in the simplest way possible.

It goes well.

Mateo decides pretty soon you’re his new favourite person, and you basically become one of Irene’s as well.

That’s how you find yourself on the sideline during a Barça training session, reading a book about a dog that doesn’t know how to bark while Mateo is too pleased with himself, checking all the math exercises he nailed. 

“Good one?”

You raise your gaze, shielding your eyes from the sun enough to point out Alexia’s silhouette.

The weather is still too warm for your comfort, making you question the girls’ mental stability for running lap after lap under such conditions with a smile on their faces. 

Sports people are scary.

“You look too good to be someone who just finished training”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Derogatory”, you clarify, pushing your stuff aside so that Alexia can sit beside you on the sideline. 

She’s drinking some sort of sport drink like she’s just eaten sand, and this close, she looks human. She’s grinning, enjoying the sun picking at her skin and Mateo’s passionate explanation of the math exercises he’s done all by himself.

The training session is wrapped up, she stays until Irene comes back from the changing room, washed and dressed, ready to take the little boy home.

The blonde lingers a bit longer, talking about books she loved growing up and how she takes management courses when she can. You find out Penélope Cruz is both your favourite actress, but the midfielder acts shocked when you tell her you haven’t watched her favourite film. 

That night, you put it on and change the language setting, live-texting Alexia all your reactions.

Halfway through, you’re pretty sure she’s watching it too.

~

Almost nine months after booking that life-changing one-way ticket to Barcelona, you buy another one to go back home.

With a return ticket in hand.

It’s your mother’s birthday, so you kind of have to.

Recently, she’s been repeating a new favorite line, rambling about the uncertainty of life and the precariousness of old age. She’s barely in her 60s and has less back pain than most people of your generation, but she’s not willing to listen to reason. 

You come to the conclusion you can’t lose any more points against your brother in the unspoken sibling race for your parent’s love. So you book the flight, pack a suitcase big enough, because you literally have nothing to wear left behind, and mentally prepare for the investigation your family will conduct. 

The tension in your shoulder melts away the moment your brother wraps his arms around you in the airport terminal. 

“You grow up so much”

And, just like that, he’s your annoying, stupid older brother again.

“I didn’t miss you at all”

“I can see you holding back tears”

“You’re literally crying!”, you accuse with a grin on your lips, lightly punching him.

“Just wait until mum sees that new tattoo”

The truth is, your mother is too busy peering deep into your soul to care about the tattoo. 

It takes two days of constant reassurance that you’re working, eating, and sleeping properly; a ceramic salamander figurine – maybe overpriced, but a gift meant to make an impression; and Elena backing up your story to calm her worries.

Barely enough to get you through the rest of the week unstretched.

“She’s just worried”, your best friend tries to reason, sipping a flashy pink drink that you’re not even sure is made from real fruit.

“I moved to Barcelona, not a war zone”

“Oh, so now it’s permanent?”

The shit-eating grin spreading across her face should annoy you, but you have to admit she has a point.

At first it was just an impulsive decision, an urge to run away from everything and everyone. Then, without really realising it, the Catalan city started to feel a lot like a place to settle in, to let your wings spread wide open.

Now you almost call it home.

The waitress interrupts your flow of thoughts, saving you from Elena’s pointed gaze long enough to be properly distracted by the huge amount of food presented. He leaves with a charming smile, but you’re genuinely too focused on the salty chips to notice.

“Are you pregnant?”, you ask, looking as she almost chokes to avoid comically spilling her drink on you.

“The Spanish heat fried your brain?”

“What? You didn’t even have soft drink when we were underage”

Elena pauses for a moment, weighting if knocking over you the rest of the pink beverage could be worth it. It takes genuine pondering.

She decides to take the highest road.

“Are you dying?”

“Are you taking comedy classes in Barcelona?”

The last time your best friend was this over the edge it was because of a pregnancy scare. First year of university, and her boyfriend at time wasn’t really the guy you’d take home for Christmas. A memory that doesn’t help her case right now.

You slip under the dim lights of the bar, a classy spot where she hangs out with the women from her pilates class. A shiver runs down your back, a bad feeling overcoming deep inside you. 

Then, she speaks up.

“I’ve already bought a wedding dress”, she admits, as if she’s confessing a crime, “It’s a size smaller and I have to–”

“Elena, for fuck’s sake, I thought you were actually dying!”

“It is, indeed, a tragedy”

“He hasn’t even proposed yet”

“Details”, she chugs the rest of the drink, smirking and grabbing the last chips you’re too shocked to care about.

The same waitress hovers around your table, drawn in by the loud exchange and your clear distress, “Excuse me, is everything okay?”

He’s young, charming enough for this to be just a gig while he waits and hopes for his acting career to take off. However, he looks genuinely concerned, his gaze shifting between the deep frown and your friend amused grin.

“All good, she’s just dramatic”, Elena points at you with the straw, before delivering the final blow, “And she is single”

The poor boy’s face lights up, naively thinking the commotion was a creative way to play matchmaker.

What a mistake.

You don’t even dignify her with a glance, rolling your eyes before addressing him directly, “Excuse her, she’s panicking because her long-time, overly in-love boyfriend still hasn’t popped the question”

“That’s not–”

“And I’m not interested”, you finish, kind but firm.

He leaves with a nod, cheeks slightly red.

Elena watches him disappear as you sip your own drink, studying you the way she used to when you were confused teenagers who didn’t know how to deal properly with all those feelings and real-life emotions.

“Oh”

The reason you still encourage her goes beyond your understanding.

You’re not starting to question it now, “What?”

“You like someone”

“Elena, I swear–”

“No, no, it’s just–”, her gaze softens as she looks at you, teasing and playful attitude making space for her most supportive side, “It’s good to see you, you know, welcoming back some happiness”

It doesn’t matter how she’s always capable of reading you like a book, like you’re a poem she knows by heart but she’s never tired of.

After all the years and the lessons you’ve learned together, it feels so comforting to know there’s someone out there who deeply understands you. Who truly sees you.

You don’t deny it, you don’t retort to her observation. 

That's not the point right now.

~

You break the promise made to Alba.

Kind of.

It’s early in the morning, the sun has barely risen in the sky, but it’s the perfect time to arrive at the little market. It arrives every two weeks, with vibrant stalls full of everything – though you understand half the things the vendors say. The freshness of the fruit and the unique clothing finds you always manage to come home with are totally worth it.

Alexia is buying vegetables and, judging by the passion she shares with the old lady in front of her, discussing important geopolitical questions.

You enjoy the exchange, taking a moment before approaching.

She jokes about the fact you’re up before the clock even hits double digits, laughing at your retort about fighting with the elderly over groceries. 

The footballer suggests breakfast in a cosy place not far from the market, the promise of fresh bakeries enough to convince you.

It’s not a date.

But you walk side by side, bags lightly colliding sometimes, and before you know it, you’ve arrived at the café. Alexia holds the door open, pointing out her favorite pastries. She scoffs, unamused, when she realizes your questions distracted her long enough for you to pay for both your orders.

It’s not a date, obviously.

But you sit at a table in the far corner of the café for almost three hours, talking about everything and nothing. The bubble you find yourself in bursts when Ricardo calls, complaining that you’re late for lunch, despite insisting on making a reservation.

“We should do this again”, she says as she hugs you goodbye, a smile lighting her entire face.

It’s not a date, but it definitely feels like it.

You remembered the promise you made to Alba, to save your first date for her once you feel ready, just a second after realising how badly you wish to go on a real one with her sister.

~

You refuse categorically to celebrate your birthday at the boys’ restaurant.

They could make a big deal out of it, insist on paying for everything, and you couldn’t let that happen. After months of knowing them and the “Barcelona way” of celebrating loved ones, you can’t let them be in charge of this. 

Also, the bills are finally adding up. They can afford it, you can’t let them do it – at least, not emotionally speaking.

So you host a little party at your place – your place, because Ricardo says you basically own it as much as he does after the bathroom’s makeover. 

The small kitchen quickly turns into chaos the moment Paco takes charge and ropes Ricardo into helping. Pedro shows up with decorations and a banner that was most likely used for his little sister’s. Paul, however, closes the restaurant that same afternoon, brushing off your protests and reassuring you that your birthday is more important than the evening’s earnings.

You can’t find it in yourself to fight them.

The apartment fills with laughter and a vibrant energy that eases the weight pressing on your chest when overthinking takes hold. Balloons cover nearly the entire floor, raised voices and the scent of spices travel from the kitchen. 

Your friends from the hiking group arrive in waves, immediately hitting it off with some of Barcelona’s team. You’ve grown close to a few of them through your relationship with Irene’s family and the one Ingrid and Frido practically forced on you.

Some regular customers from the restaurant also show up, people you’ve grown pretty comfortable with after spending so much time there during the first weeks of taking over the accounting job.

There’s also a nice girl you met at a concert, who Elena stalks on social media to make sure she’s not a serial killer.

Alba and Alexia are the last ones to arrive.

Your life in Barcelona is full of new people, new experiences and adventures.

At your lowest point, you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be loved out loud.

And those people are the loudest you ever met.

The noise around the apartment subsides just as most of the guests leave. The music is turned down to a minimum, because of the late hour and Pedro’s questionable taste, as he hasn’t let go of the speaker once all night.

The small group gathers around the couch, drinks in hand, still willing to celebrate with you. 

“I’m just saying, I think they taste the same”

The entire room erupts in protests at Ricardo’s comment.

“Absolutely no”, Pedro chimes in, seated on the edge of the armchair with a half-drunk beer in hand, “Black olives are made to be a pizza topping, green ones are perfect for everything else”

“What do you even know about pizza topping?”, you interrupt with a grin, “You put pineapple on yours”

Somehow, the complaints grew louder, the room buzzing with indignation.

“What’s wrong with that? Pineapple is a great pizza topic, you’re just too pretentious to admit it!”

“Can we move on from the pizza argument?”

“Oh, no, let’s get into it!”, you wave your hand dismissively, “Pedro, please, tell everyone what you put on first, cheese or sauce?”

“Fuck you”

“You work in a restaurant”, Alba says, her voice laced with disbelief. 

“I’m not the one cooking, am I?”

“Thank God!”

The conversation quickly turns on poor Pedro, who now finds himself defending his questionable taste and own belief.

Alexia, who’s been quietly sipping from her glass, looks at the scene with a raised eyebrow before turning to you, relaxed on the couch beside her, “Honestly, I never imagined pizza to be the thing that ends a friendship”

“I’m just happy we’re not talking about pineapple anymore, that’s a sin”

“You started this”, she points out, giggling. 

Ricardo shrugs from his spot on the floor, amused but staying out of it for now. 

“It’s my birthday, I can do whatever I want”

“Oh, por favor”, Alexia says with a playful roll of her eyes, nudging the paper crown still perched on your head, “This must have cut off circulation to your brain”

You gasp, your dramatic antics in full display, fueled by the time, the alcohol, and, likely, the footballer’s shoulder still brushing against yours.

“You’re just jealous you’re not the only reina in the room”

“Keep dreaming”, Alexia responds with a grin.

The proximity lingers in a way that’s not just playful. It’s comfortable, like an inside joke no one else is allowed in on.

Ricardo watches the interaction from the corner of his eye, his gaze lingering on you and the blonde for a moment longer than necessary. He notices how her cheeks redden slightly, the way you look a little different – softer, at ease.

Alba catches the moment too, still pretending to be involved in the pizza argument. She notices the quiet exchanges and private moments that have unfolded all evening. The way you and her sister have fallen into a different rhythm, a different world.

She’s seen it before.

There’s something between you two, something unspoken, but not quite hidden. She wonders how long it’s been there, how long it’s been that way.

But, like Ricardo, she keeps her thoughts to herself.

The rest of the group laughs, the debate seems to fade into a more relaxed conversation that doesn’t involve food or questionable life choices.

As the night goes on, the teasing continues, but, underneath the surface, there’s something deeper.

There’s the way you lean in a little closer to Alexia when someone says something ridiculous, how your eyes linger on her when Pedro makes a joke and you think no one is watching.

There’s the way Alexia’s knee brushes yours when you laugh, how her fingers dance on your arm simply because you’re close enough to.

There’s the exchange of gazes and smiles, quiet signs of complicity in the loud room.

~

Ricardo waits to the tune of three days before cornering you.

You mention being a bit homesick after your birthday and the Putellas sisters literally drag you to have dinner with them at their mom’s. Eli is the sweetest woman ever, going above and beyond to the point of making that one pie you mentioned once being your favourite. 

The house is filled with memories and tender gestures, a haven of support and a desire of caring for your own that squeezes your heart with a bittersweet beauty. Spending the night there makes it clear how Alexia and Alba were raised, revealing the roots of their kindness.

“You had fun?”

It’s a miracle you don’t drop dead on the floor right there, Ricardo’s voice echoing from the middle of the couch in the dark room.

“Why are you lurking like a fucking killer?”, you shout at him when your heartbeat slows down enough to let you come up with proper words.

“I was waiting for you”

You don’t even dignify him with a response, watching how he’s sipping from a mug like a scene from the shittiest b-movie you can think of.

Crossing the room to sleep the unease away, the guy’s next words make you stop right where you are, “You need to come clean with her”

“What are you talking about–”

“You like Alexia”

It’s not a question, there’s no doubt in his voice.

There’s not a single reason to even try to fight his assumption or your own overthinking.

You reach for the seat next to him on the couch, noticing the second mug just when he offers it to you. It’s a fruity tea you enjoy hot, with way too much honey and not a drop of milk – exactly like the one in your hands. 

The silence wrapping around is comforting in a way that makes sense just because it’s the two of you, sipping tea in the quiet darkness of the room.

“I do”, you admit after a while, even if you don’t need to. 

“I know”

“That obvious?”

“Yeah”, your roommate confirms with a soft smile.

He doesn’t tease, he doesn’t accuse you of anything.

It’s so typically Ricardo that you feel a surge of affection, a need to embrace him and accepting the support of someone who, in a twisted and brotherly way, looks out for you – and your heart. So you do just that, jumping into his arms without a care of your reputation or of the almost-empty mugs.

The man, despite the surprise of your reaction, is ready to hold you for how long you need.

Turns out, you need it a lot.

“Sorry, sorry”, you say after a couple of minute, trying to pull yourself together, “I didn’t see it coming”

“Me being so observant and clever or you falling in love with Alexia?”

“I’m not in love with Alexia”

“Yet”

He’s lucky the tea is not hot anymore.

“I’m not in love with Alexia”, you repeat. 

Not yet, resonates in your head – your own mind betraying you. 

Yes, Alexia is beautiful. Yes, you two apparently clicked perfectly right the moment you met. Yes, recently the time together doubled the time spent with anyone else. You can admit you like Alexia, the therapy is worth the commitment and the money put into it. 

But being in love?

It’s a good feeling, the one that makes her cheeks flush crimson when your smile catches her gazing. Even better, the one that fills you with pride when Alexia’s laugh resonates in the room because of something you say or do. 

It’s an exciting force, the one that unsettles your stomach when she reaches for you just for the sake of touching – of feeling you close. Even better, the one that makes you two sure of finding the other in a room full of people just when needed. 

It’s so terrifying close to love, what it’s blossoming.

You want to fall in love with Alexia.

Ricardo raises from the couch, taking the mugs and putting them on the sink to be dealt with tomorrow. An annoying habit you’re sure he keeps up with just to annoy you.

He returns a minute later, “Are you going to do something about it?”

You don’t miss a bit, “Yes”

“Let Alba know first”, he says with a serious note in his voice, “She liked you”

~

The stadium buzzes with the loud roaring of fans and the sharp, clean scent of freshly cut grass under the rain. Barcelona dominates the pitch, their control of the midfield a suffocating grip as the opponents scramble, desperate for a counterattack. 

Between miscalculated slides and short passes, Alexia weaves through defenders in a blur of motion and focused energy. She’s calm when the ball is glued on her feet, sparkling to light, her presence igniting the pitch, as soon as her teammates take over. 

Patri finds her captain just outside the box and you lean forward, smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

You may be new to the whole thing, new in the Blaugrana’s home stands, but you learn quickly and you know exactly what Alexia’s movement means. 

The shot curves perfectly, the stadium exhales a collective gasp as the goalkeeper’s fingertips fail to reach it. The ball hits the bar loudly, the sound echoing before it flies out of the pitch.

Beside you, Alba lets out a whoop, clapping her hands with a grin stretching across her face, “She’s out for blood”

You laugh, not like anyone could disagree.

Barça is winning by three goals, outrunning the defence and shooting as if they need to score at least three more to sleep peacefully tonight. 

The poor goalkeeper will have nightmares for sure.

“She really want to take home that ball”

“She’s playing to impress”, Alba points out, not so subtly.

You chuckle, her remark flying over your head, “She’s just– good, I guess”

“Good? ¡Por favor!”, the younger Putellas scoffs, rolling her eyes, “She’s acting like a ballet dancer out there, doing pirouettes and running around like she has two sets of lungs”

As to prove her sister’s point, Alexia nutmegs another midfielder and executes another perfect movement, clearing the field for Aitana to set up Vicky for a chip goal.

The crowd erupts, but Alba’s attention remains fixed on you.

“¡Mirala!”, she says, pointing at the pitch where the team is hugging and celebrating, “That was another ‘look at me, soy la Reina’ moment!” 

“Your sister is the most competitive person I’ve ever met”

“Competitive? Chica, she’s showing off! And don’t even get me started on the way she keeps looking up here, fixing her hair between plays– It’s ridiculous”

You watch as Barcelona’s bubble dissipates and they get back at their positions, Alexia waves towards your seats, her face illuminated by a radiant grin.

Your cheeks flush slightly, a mixture of amusement and something else.

The game keeps on with the same level of excitement, and even more shots on target. They win narrowly, unconcerned by their soaked clothes, lingering happily in the rain to sign autographs and chat with supporters.

Alexia immediately seeks out you and Alba, trying to embrace you both despite your not-so-playful protests. The damp material of her kit clings, accentuating her defined muscles, and your thoughts stray to less innocent territories.

Alba sends her sister to the changing room, accepting the kiss landed on her forehead and watching as you nod like an idiot when she leaves with the promise to be back in no time, her hand lingering on your arm.

“¡Ay, esto es increíble!”, she interrupts your thought flow, tilting her umbrella just enough for a stream of rain to drop on your face. 

“Alba!”

“You’re not exactly subtle either, ¿sabes?”

The stadium noises fade into a distant hum. The air between you thickens, the playful banter morphing into something more charged and intentional. Your fingers fidget with the edge of your jacket, avoiding the younger woman’s gaze.

“How long have you known?”, you ask.

“The moment I introduced the two of you, idiota!”, she says, her voice teasing, “But I knew for sure at your birthday’s party”

“Nothing happened between us”

Alba’s smile softens, a gentle understanding dawning in her eyes, “I’m not blind and I know my sister pretty well. And honestly? I think it’s cute, you two glow when you’re together. She likes you. A lot. And you like her too"

Your shoulders relax, “I do. I really like her, Alba”

The wave of relief that washes over you is comforting.

You don’t owe her anything, and Alba definitely doesn’t owe you anything. But it’s good to know this love growing between you and Alexia is real, people around you see it too. People you care about support it.

Your smile spreads naturally on your face when you spot Barcelona’s captain approaching, hair still wet but changed in warm clothes.

Alba doesn’t miss it, nudging you with her elbow just before her sister’s close enough to hear, “It’s good you feel ready to date again, and I’m happy it’s her”

~

“I’m going to say it just once, so listen carefully”, you stop in the middle of the road with a stoic face, “Please, don’t make me regret our entire friendship”

The grin on Elena’s lips tells you everything you need to know, but you give her the benefit of the doubt. Because she’s your best friend, because she knows how to behave.

But she’s your best friend, and she’s not going to behave.

Her visit is not unpleasant, just unexpected.

It’s barely six in the morning when loud bangs on the front door wake you up and almost scare Ricardo to death. He takes it well enough, greeting Elena and going back to sleep the shock away. You, on the other hand, think of leaving her waiting outside until it’s socially acceptable to show up. Her immediate embrace is a clever attempt to smooth your annoyance.

She booked a red-eye flight for a hit and run, so you take her around Barcelona all day and agree to a late night out in a club Alba suggested you join with some of her friends.

“Relax”, she says, skipping steps like a kid as you approach the place.

“Elena, I’m serious”

“Why are you so stressed? Oh– oh, I know!”

She turns around in her heels, too graciously for someone with shoes so high and such low alcohol tolerance – you two may not be in your early 20s anymore, but you figured pregame was necessary this time around.

Her good resolution of not drinking alcohol crumbled as soundly as it started.

“Is she here too?”

“I don’t know what–”

“This mysterious woman you can’t shut up about, who is so great you have heart-shaped eyes but I can’t know her name”, she interrupts, grabbing you by the shoulder as you approach the club’s entrance. 

It’s not like you’re hiding Alexia, or your feelings for her.

She’s a frequent topic of conversation with your best friend, you’re comfortable sharing the moments between the two of you and the way your heart beats at a completely different rhythm around the Barcelona’s captain.

But Elena can be protective, and curious.

All she needs is a name, and she’s going to find out if Alexia has ever got a bad grade in primary school. The teasing for liking a football player? You aren’t ready for that either.

“Yes, she’s here and I need you to–”

“This is the best day of my life!”, she doesn’t even let you finish, leaves you right there, flashing the bodyguard at the entrance a huge smile and sweet talking her way in – even though they have your names as vip guests.

“This is going to be the worst day of mine”, you mutter to yourself, following after her.

The energy in the club is charged with a dangerous combination of freewill and alcohol. The place is packed and colored lights go on and off with the music, bright enough to see who’s in front of you, but not enough to make your decision clear. Not tonight.

Alba sees you first, waving her hand to catch your attention so you join them in a secluded table in a corner of the place.

You don’t even ask how Elena is already seated in the cool leather booth, talking animatedly.

“She’s funny”, Alba comments after greeting you with a hug.

“Don’t believe a word she says”

The younger girl’s laugh mixes with your best friend’s, and you know your fate is sealed when a guy hands her a drink. 

You look around the table, noticing some people from Alba’s close circle and some you met in passing at the restaurant or at a Barcelona’s game.

“She’s in the bathroom”

Your body betrays you before a coherent thought can leave your brain, your cheeks redding to the tips of your ears. 

“Told you, you’re not subtle”, Alba comments, too amused at your reaction.

As if she knows you’re talking about her, as if a magnetic energy forces your body to get closer and closer, Alexia’s gaze locks with yours as she approaches the table, followed by a vaguely familiar face.

She greets you with a dimpled smile and a welcoming hug, it may look like months passed but it’s been a matter of days. The black top she’s wearing emphasizes her toned stomach, and your fingers itch to trace the subtle sheen of sweat crossing her back – a sign she’s been dancing for a while now. 

You’re fashionably late, regardless of the time Alba suggested you to be here. Spanish people are stragglers, you have learned it at your own expense.

“Are you ready?”, the footballer asks.

“For what?”

“You owe me a dance”

“Absolutely not!”, you protest, trying to escape her hug.

“Oh, yes”, she smile, her arm around your waist dragging you even closer, “You made fun of my dancing moves, now you have to prove yours”

Next time, you will think twice before sending the blonde every single comment you found online about a TikTok video one of her teammates posted after a huge win. In your defence, you find it very cute.

The dance floor is filled with people, dancing in fluid movements like you learned Spaniard are comfortable with. A sea of arms fling around, bodies smoothly moving to feel each other. The music vibrates with a bass so deep that your ribs pulses at the same rhythm.

Alexia guides you in a less crowded section, far enough from the table so Alba and Elena can study every single movement, but out of earshot. 

You try to ignore the thought of your best friend gossiping with Alba.

Thinking, however, is the last thing you do when Alexia’s hand finds the small of your back, skin waking up by the slight hint of touch.

It doesn’t really matter how you managed to get this close, how the music runs through your bodies with an unmistakable energy and desire to get even closer. Your arms rise to frame the blonde’s face, her grin growing as soon as she notices your reaction.

It’s not like either of you is hiding the attraction, the pulsing needs to be together. To talk, to touch, to be around one another. It’s always been there, you just never acted on it.

“Are they like that all the time?”, Elena asks, still studying the way you seem to speak a different language with Alexia.

“I’m thinking about locking them somewhere until they kiss or whatever”

The disbelief is clear in Elena’s voice, “Are you sure they haven’t kissed yet?”

“If I know my sister, she must be really fucking scared”

“If I know my best friend, she must be really fucking stupid”

The two nod before bursting in a loud laugh, clicking their glasses. 

Almost an half an hour later, you find them like that, giggling and talking as if they have known each other for years and not just met. Alexia raises an eyebrow, silently questioning if she needs to hold back Alba’s enthusiasm – Elena is matching it without a problem, and that’s what really worries you. 

“And that’s how she ended up with the sister of her blind date”

“That’s not how it happened, at all”, you complain, hitting your best friend’s arm as she decide telling the worst stories possible is the best way to spend the night.

“Must have been a great date”, someone jokes.

“I’m a fantastic date, thank you so much”

“I can confirm”, Alba says with a teasing grin, raising her empty glass as you flip her off with an equally open smile on your lips.

Alexia, on the other hand, straightens up a bit at the exchange, switches her gaze between the two of you, almost taken aback, “You two dated?”

“I told you”, the younger girl retorts.

“I thought you were messing with me”

The change in her posture is subtle, but you’re close enough to feel it. Close enough to notice the way she moves her knee, breaking contact with yours, her fingers toying with the ring on her pinky.

Alba is a bit too drunk to pay attention to the footballer’s dampened mood, not affected anymore by that one date with you so long ago.

She told her sister about it when she first clocked in her interest for you, hoping to clear the way for her to do something about it – a sort of blessing.

Turns out, Alexia’s so sure she was teasing her, lying about it just to annoy her.

Thankfully, your best friend reads in your face the panic and drifts the conversation on a completely different topic. 

The rest of the night passes in a blur of laughs, questionable drinking choices, and more dancing. 

Every single attempt of catching Alexia’s eyes fails miserably. She’s not ignoring you, she doesn’t leave her seat next to you, and her touch is light but grounding. Your mind, however, spirals in a way it hasn’t in months.

It’s late when the group decides to call it a day, stumbling out into the cool, damp air of Barcelona. No one is sober enough to even think of driving, the decision to summon taxis rather than risk the roads is unanimous. 

A strange intimacy settled inside the car. You and Alexia sit in the back, while Alba, in the middle, sleeps on the older woman’s shoulder with soft snores. Elena is deep in conversation with the Catalan driver, despite not speaking a word of the language. The city lights flash outside, blurred by a light drizzle that you trace with a finger against the window.

Upon reaching Alexia’s apartment, you insist on helping her carry her sister inside, ignoring her half-hearted protests. Your best friend, armed with a winning smile and a ‘thank me later’ attitude, somehow manages to convince the driver to wait for you outside.

The place is quiet when you enter, amplifying the tension that crackled between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s never uncomfortable.

You and Alexia carefully settle Alba onto the bed, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows across the guest room. Each gentle adjustment of her sister’s blanket, each soft whisper to ensure her comfort, stretched out the delicate balance. 

It’s minutes later, right by the front door, that something snaps.

Before you can reach the handle on the way out, the footballer’s fingers wrap around your wrist.

There’s urgency in the way her body feels stirred by an electric discharge all of a sudden, her voice low, “You dated?”

“What?”, your confusion is mostly prompted by Alexia’s distressed tone.

“You dated my sister?”

“No, we– I mean, we went out like one time and I was, clearly, still fucked up by my ex– It’s not like we actually dated or something”

“She said–”

“She was joking”, your hands cupping the blonde’s face seems to do wonder at calming her, but you still feel the need to clarify the situation, “I kissed her, once, then found a good therapist and said to her I wasn’t interested like that”

“Are you interested like that?”

“Alexia, I just said–”

“No, no”, she interrupts shyly, never dropping her gaze, “Are you interested in me like that?”

Despite the voices still filling doubts in your head, kissing her is the easiest, most natural thing to do at that moment. 

Her lips are soft, warm, and taste faintly of sweet drinks. Her breath mingled with yours, a shared rhythm in the quiet intimacy of the kiss.

A current of interest, desire, and care pulls you closer. There’s complicity and belonging, mingling with curiosity, and the thrill of uncharted territory.

And there’s Alexia, right in front of you, vulnerable and exposed and trusting enough to lay her emotions in your hands. Making you feel so safe that you don’t even have to think about doing the same.

So you kiss again, trying to convey how sure you are about your feelings. Because the insecurities and the questioning silence when Alexia’s heartbeat syncs with yours and her hand caresses your face.

The sharp honk coming from the taxi outside is the only reason why you separate.

~

The late afternoon sun drapes over the Barcelona streets as you and Alexia stroll, fingers laced together. 

It’s a familiar feeling now, holding hands after a date.

You have explored hidden hikes, shared tapas after her games, and even attended a couple of flamenco lessons. Nothing too different from what you’ve already experienced. 

Except, of course, for the kissing.

And there’s been a lot of that.

Your phone buzzes, interrupting Alexia’s recall of Vicky’s last attempt of convincing her to do another stupid trend. You drop her hand, your fingers flying across the screen, muttering in concentration.

The footballer raises an eyebrow, complaining playfully, “Am I annoying you?”

“It’s this stupid bird!”

“Still fighting with ser y estar?”

“I’m sorry, my Spanish teacher is a tease and gets distracted five minutes after promising to help me study”

“She sounds like an incredible teacher”, she counters, too pleased with herself as she hints at your last private tutoring.

Despite your best effort, the other woman had other plans. The sentences she whispered right at your ear, with a raspy voice and a note of teasing in every single movement of her lips, made your resolution crumble in a matter of minutes. The books, not even opened, fell off the bed with a kick of her foot.

You do, however, learn some new words.

Your cheeks flush at the memory, “Shut up!”

“I said nothing”

You ignore her grin, still welcoming her embrace as she pulls you closer to help with the lesson.

“This app is useless! Why do those Spanish animals always do weird things? It’s making me questioning my entire existence”

“Tan dramática”, Alexia snorts, nudging you with her hip, “Why are you even using that thing? You can learn everything you need from me”

“I’m trying to actually learn something here”, you retort, faking annoyance, “Besides, you’re not always available for Spanish lessons. I want to get better, impress the locals”

“After more than a year?”

“Never too late”, you grin, “Just wait, I’ll be ordering in flawless Catalan in less time than it took you to ask me out”

Alexia stops in her tracks at your teasing, taken aback by your admission and by way of calling her out for the stalling after the first kiss you shared. She may have needed a little push then, trying to find the best moment to ask you for a real date to just blur it out in the rush of a late game night you attended.

You continue walking, too focused on the lesson to acknowledge the blonde’s momentary pause.

“Wait, I thought you were taking Spanish lessons”

“Yes, from you and the stupid bird, but I have an actually tutor for Catalan”

“You’re learning Catalan?”

“I live in Barcelona”, you say, matter of factly, but the flush creeping up on your cheeks betrays you.

The truth hangs in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken. It isn’t about fitting in, not anymore. It’s about her.

To understand her better, wrapping deeply into the fabric of her world. It’s commitment, to the city and to a future that you can’t picture without her in. It’s a promise, somehow, to bridge any gap and to learn her culture, her soul. 

Alexia’s gaze lingers, the weight of your growing feelings both exhilarating and inevitable.

She told herself she set a pace comfortable for you, respecting your need to get better with loving yourself and trusting others.

But you’ve been ready for this love for quite some time now.

The way you open up with her, hold her after a long day, and gently kiss the creases around her lips when she smiles. The way you not just proudly wear your heart on your sleeve, but you hand out your emotions to be seen. The way you make her feel safe enough to be vulnerable, to be taken care of. 

The way you’re learning to love her by learning to love everything that makes her who she is.

A nervous flutter, like trapped butterflies, stirred in your stomach as Alexia catches up to you. You could feel the energy radiating from her, the subtle scent of her perfume, a mix of wood and something undeniably her.

“Estic enamorada de tu”, she confesses, cheeks slightly tinted but her voice so firm, so sure. 

“I know what that means”

A smile, genuine and carefree, grows on both your lips. You study her face for a moment, finding nothing but pure care and a force that feels like arms keeping you safe and warm.

Nothing but love. 

The way you kiss her is almost too intense for a late afternoon in the streets of Barcelona, but barely enough to convey all the emotions that you discovered and learned to welcome in your life again. 

You may not be ready to say out loud you’re falling in love with her too, not yet. But the firmness of your hands on her face, the happiness lightning in your eyes, the resolution conveyed by your kiss.

She knows.

~

On the day you declare the restaurant officially debt free, Paco lifts you up off the ground, spins you around with ease and plants a loud kiss on your forehead.

Paul’s reaction is a bit tamed, even if he declares he’s going to name his firstborn after you. Still single and hopeless romantic, you’re not sure how much to read into his words.

Pedro cries, of course he does, but he also hugs you in a way that conveys almost too much not to shed a few tears yourself.

It’s not difficult for you to admit you own them more than they own you. 

Taking care of the restaurant’s ledger and the guys’ enthusiastic opinion about your accounting job opened a lot of small businesses’ doors. The idea of opening your own office never even crosses your mind, not planning on entangling yourself in a structured system anytime soon. The new apartment you rent has a small room that works just fine as a study.

You will still keep an eye on them, though, not sure enough your finance lessons really drilled in their heads. 

“So, you’re finally letting us treat you with dinner?”, Paul asks, serving you up with way too many pleasantries. 

“I already have someone who pays for me”, you retort, playful smirk on your lips.

“¡Ay, I thought you were taking me out tonight!”, Alexia complains next to you, keeping up with the joke as she pretends to not be interested in the food anymore. She can be such a dork.

“Wait, am I crushing a date?”, Alba intercepts from the other side of the table.

“You’ve been crushing our dates since the day we met!”

The laughs that erupt are loud enough to catch the attention of the other patrons, thankfully not really annoyed by the chaos. The truth is that, despite being a menace of a group, it is not like you can drag your friends in any other place without the risk of getting banned forever. 

It’s a familiar scene. The restaurant feels like a second home now, one that you built on your own around people that truly see you, support you and never miss a chance to tease you.

So you shake your head at Ricardo’s antics and glare at Alexia when she keeps teasing her sister, effortlessly distracting her with light movements of your fingers on her knee. 

The conversation flows between shared memories and inside jokes, carrying the night away until your table is the only one left. Not planning on leaving the place anytime soon. And as you sit there, surrounded by your friends, questionable recalling of stories, and the magnetic pull of Alexia’s presence, you just know that this is it. 

This is your life, your love, your chosen family.

Then Pedro has to ruin the moment, persuading everyone you have to make a toast for whatever reason. You try to fight it, embarrassed and quite frankly taken aback by the respect and genuine admiration this people seems to feel for you. 

A subtle nod of your girlfriend’s head, her hand finding yours beneath the table, is all you need to indulge with their antics.

“To us”, you say, raising a glass, “To finally getting our shit together!”

Laughter and cheers fill the restaurant, everyone congratulating each other for the most random things and joking around as if life could always be this simple.

Alexia’s hold tightens, her eyes meeting yours. Her face lights up in a way that never fails to make your own heart grow. 

“T’estimo”, you whisper, just for her to hear. 

Your love is usually so loud. A love that grows unexpectedly, but burns with a fierce and tender flame. But your promises are quiet. A silent acknowledgment of commitment that goes beyond, that stretches confidently into the future. 

Together.

You're a highly successful basketball player who has just been transferred to Barcelona's women's team. The number 11 holds deep personal significance for you. Among the spectators is none other than football superstar Alexia Putellas, synonymous with the number 11 in Barça history, watching from the sidelines.

What starts as mutual admiration quickly turns into something more, fuelled by weeks of playful yet intense online flirting. The chemistry between you and Alexia becomes undeniable.

I've really enjoyed writing and sharing this, thank you for all the love on this! ❤️

Hope you enjoy the chaotic last chapter!

The next morning, sunlight filters through your blinds, casting golden stripes across rumpled sheets. Your body aches pleasantly—a physical reminder of last night that makes heat rise to your face even in solitude. You reach for your phone, half-expecting a message from her, but there's nothing.

Just hundreds of notifications from social media.

"Shit," you mutter, sitting up too quickly.

You scroll through them with mounting dread. Photos of you and Alexia at Red are everywhere—nothing explicit, thank god, but the way you're looking at each other leaves little to the imagination. One shot captures you following her back from the Private VIP balcony, her hand brushing yours, both of you wearing expressions that scream post-hookup satisfaction.

Your team group chat has exploded:

Claudia: OMG HAVE YOU SEEN THESE

Claudia: You went out with Alexia?

Maya: I KNEW IT 

Liv: Coach is gonna have an aneurysm

Marta: You better have details ready at practice or I'm throwing a ball at your face

You groan, burying your face in your pillow. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Whatever this was.

The training facility looms ahead, and you take a deep breath before pushing through the doors. You're early—deliberately so, hoping to slip into the locker room before the full squad arrives. But as you round the corner, you realize your plan has failed spectacularly.

They're all there. Every single one of your teammates, arranged in a semicircle like they've been waiting for you. Which, judging by their expressions, they absolutely have been.

"Well, well, well," Taylor drawls, leaning against her locker with exaggerated casualness. "Look who decided to grace us with her presence."

"I'm early," you point out, dropping your bag on the bench. "Practice doesn't start for twenty minutes."

"Oh, we're not talking about practice," Mia says, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "We're talking about your night with Barcelona's golden girl."

Heat creeps up your neck despite your best efforts to appear unfazed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

This is met with a chorus of disbelieving snorts and eye rolls.

"Save it," Jasmine says, tossing her phone your way. "You two are literally everywhere online. That club wasn't as discreet as you thought. Neither is that love bite on your neck”

You catch the phone, stomach dropping as you see the photo on screen. It's you and Alexia on the dance floor, your back pressed against her front, her lips dangerously close to your neck. The lighting is dim, but there's no mistaking either of you.

"Fuck," you mutter, handing the phone back.

The locker room erupts in laughter, a mix of cheers and mock scandalised gasps echoing off the walls. You groan, running a hand down your face. There’s no getting out of this.

"Oh, come on," Claudia says, flopping down beside you with an eager grin. "You have to give us details. Was she as intense as she is on the pitch?"

Maya leans forward, eyes glinting with mischief. "Or worse?"

You shake your head, grabbing your boots and focusing very intently on tying the laces. "You lot are unbelievable."

"Oh, we know," Marta says smugly. "But you love us. Now, tell us—who made the first move? We saw the photos of her all over you, but was that before or after you two snuck off to that private room?"

You freeze for half a second—just enough time for them to notice. The room erupts again. “YOU DID!" Liv practically yells, pointing an accusatory finger. 

Maya claps her hands together, cackling. "Oh my god, please tell me you at least checked for cameras."

"There were no cameras," you mutter, shaking your head. "Thank god."

"So you did do something up there," Marta says, triumphant.

Your silence is damning.

"You are so done for," Claudia grins, nudging your shoulder. "You have to tell us—was it just a heated make-out, or should we be buying wedding gifts already?"

You groan again, tipping your head back in exasperation. "You lot are the worst."

Liv wiggles her eyebrows. "Not an answer."

You exhale, dragging a hand through your hair. They’re relentless, and you’re never getting out of this unless you give them something. "It was… intense," you admit, voice low. "Really fucking intense."

The room falls into stunned silence for all of three seconds before they collectively lose their minds again.

"Oh shit," Maya whispers dramatically. "She got you hooked."

"That bad, huh?" Marta teases, smirking.

You roll your eyes. "Shut up."

"Absolutely not," Liv laughs. "So what now? Are you two, like, a thing? Or are you just basking in the afterglow of the best night of your life?"

Your stomach twists at the question because, honestly? You don’t know. "Don’t look at me like that," you mutter. "I haven’t figured it out yet."

That earns you a chorus of oooohs, because of course it does.

"Sounds like someone’s smitten," Claudia teases, sing-song.

"Sounds like someone’s in trouble," Maya counters. And for the first time all morning, you don’t have a snappy comeback.

The laughter dies down for barely a second before Liv narrows her eyes, a devilish smirk creeping across her face. "Hold on. Let's back up. You say it was intense—but, like, how intense are we talking?"

Marta leans forward, intrigued. "Yeah, was it just, like, the heat of the moment kind of intense? Or the holy shit, I can't breathe, what the hell are we doing kind?"

Claudia wiggles her eyebrows. "Or was it the I need five to ten business days to recover kind?"

You groan, burying your face in your hands. "Why are you like this?"

"Because this is the best gossip we’ve had in ages," Maya says gleefully. 

"Now spill—who started it?"

"I—" you start, but Liv cuts you off.

"Actually, dumb question. Of course it was her. No way you were bold enough to start that."

"Excuse me?" you scoff. "I can be bold."

"Uh-huh." Marta grins. "And yet, based on all the photos, she was all over you."

You try to fight the flush rising to your face, but it's useless. "It wasn’t exactly one-sided."

"Ohhhh," Claudia hums, exchanging looks with the others. "So you were all over her too?"

You run a hand over your face. "Maybe."

Liv gasps, clapping her hands. "Oh my god, you were!"

Maya fans herself dramatically. "Did you pin her against the wall? Tell me you pinned her against the wall."

"No," you say quickly, but they see right through you.

"That was too fast," Marta says smugly.

"You totally did," Claudia grins.

"Or she pinned you," Liv suggests, eyes lighting up.

You freeze again. And once again, they notice. The locker room explodes into chaos.

"NO WAY!" Maya shrieks.

"SHE PINNED YOU?" Liv nearly drops her phone.

"Jesus Christ," you mutter, hiding your face as they erupt into cheers and laughter.

"That explains why you look wrecked today," Marta smirks.

"Okay, that’s enough," you say, trying to maintain some dignity. "We’re done with this conversation."

"Oh, we are so not done," Claudia says, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. "We haven’t even gotten to the best part."

"And what would that be?" you ask warily.

Liv grins. "Did you stay the night?"

You hesitate.

Big mistake.

The locker room erupts all over again.

"We didn't need to go back to either of our places" you hinted that it was more than just a heated kiss and they lost it, the questioning coming at you like a machine gun now

Liv screeches, slapping Marta’s arm so hard it echoes through the locker room. "OH MY GOD!"

Claudia nearly falls off the bench. "WAIT, WAIT, WAIT. Where then? If you didn’t go back to her place or yours, where the hell did this happen?"

Maya's jaw drops, eyes going wide. "Oh my god. It was in the club, wasn’t it?”

Your silence is damning.

Marta gasps, pointing at you. "No. No way. Tell me you didn’t make out in the bathroom."

"No," you groan, rubbing your temples.

Claudia's eyes narrow as the pieces start falling into place. "Not at home, not the bathroom... but somewhere in the club…" She suddenly claps a hand over her mouth. "Oh my fucking god. The VIP balcony? Thats the door you were going through with her”

The locker room erupts.

"NO. NO WAY."

“IN VIEW?!”

"You mean to tell me," Liv pants between laughter, "you and Alexia were out there in plain sight?"

"Not plain sight—" you start, but Maya cuts you off.

"Oh my god, that’s why there are so many pictures of you two disappearing up there together!" She grabs her phone, scrolling frantically. "Everyone saw you following her. They just didn’t know what happened after."

Your face is burning. "I hate all of you." The locker room descends into absolute chaos. Marta is cackling, Maya has fully collapsed onto the bench, and Claudia is staring at you like you’ve just revealed you’re actually royalty.

"You animal," Liv wheezes.

Marta is in shambles, clutching her stomach. "Did people walk past?"

"I don’t know!" you groan. "It wasn’t like we were— I mean—it was just—"

"You can’t even finish a sentence!" Claudia howls. "Putellas actually broke you."

"Okay, but was it like… hands-on-the-wall kind of thing?" Liv teases. "Or was there a couch?"

You squeeze your eyes shut. "Why are you like this?"

"Because this is the best thing that has ever happened to us," Maya grins.

Marta fans herself. "The balcony, though. That is a power move."

Liv smirks, tossing her phone onto the bench. "I mean, damn. I knew Alexia had game, but I didn’t think she had public-balcony-at-an-exclusive-club game."

Maya howls. "Holy shit, no wonder you look like you barely survived a hurricane!"

Claudia snickers. "And here I thought you were all responsible and professional."

You shoot her a look. "I am responsible!"

"You made out with Spain’s captain on a private balcony where anyone could have seen if they got the right angle,” Liv reminds you. "Babe, that ship has sailed."

Your face betrays you before you can even think about stopping it. A flicker of something—guilt, panic, something—must cross your expression, because suddenly, the whole room goes silent.

"Wait."

Maya's eyes go wide. "Wait, wait, wait."

Claudia actually gasps, slapping a hand over her mouth like she just uncovered the world's greatest scandal.

Marta points at you, her jaw dropping. "No way."

Liv is the first to recover, leaning in with a wicked grin. "You didn't just make out, did you?"

You open your mouth to argue—deny, deflect, anything—but you hesitate for half a second too long.

Chaos.

"OH. MY. GOD!"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT WASN’T JUST A MAKE-OUT?"

"You absolute menace!"

Claudia clutches her chest like she’s having a heart attack. "ON THE BALCONY?!"

Marta is howling, actually having to sit down. 

Claudia nearly slides off the bench. "Do you have any shame?!"

Marta is howling, banging her fist against the locker. "No, no, no. This is legendary behaviour."

Liv, barely able to contain herself, grips your arm. "You’re telling me— you two went up there, where anyone could have walked past, and got handsy?”

You groan, rubbing your hands down your face. "I am never telling you guys anything again."

Maya gasps dramatically. "Oh my god, did she—"

"STOP!" you interrupt, grabbing your training top and shoving it over your head. "I’m leaving. I don’t need this."

"You absolutely do," Liv calls after you. "Because the second this session is over, we’re gonna want to talk about it all over again."

Marta smirks. "And, we’re getting details.

Training is supposed to be your escape. A place where you can drown out the noise, focus on the game, and forget the absolute circus your teammates turned the morning into.

But apparently, the universe has other plans.

You’re midway through warm-ups when you hear it— "What the hell is that on your neck?"

You freeze. The ball you were absentmindedly passing back and forth with Maya clatters away as your head snaps toward the voice. Coach is standing there, hands on their hips, staring directly at you with narrowed eyes.

"Shit," you mutter under your breath.

There’s a moment of silence. Then, from somewhere behind you, Liv wheezes. Claudia physically turns away so her laugh is muffled in her sleeve. Marta isn’t even trying to hide it, hands on her knees as she cackles.

Your jaw clenches. "It’s nothing," you say quickly. "Just—uh, caught an elbow in a challenge yesterday."

Coach squints, stepping closer. "Really?"

You resist the urge to back away. "Yup. Happened so fast, didn’t even see who did it."

"Huh." They fold their arms, eyes flicking from your face to the mark on your neck. "Because it kinda looks like a—"

"IT WAS AN ELBOW," you blurt out, voice slightly too high.

Maya snorts.

Coach stares at you for a moment longer. Then, with a long sigh, she pinches the bridge of her nose. "I don’t even wanna know. Just don’t let it be a distraction."

You nod so fast your neck almost cracks. "Absolutely. 100%. No distractions here."

Coach walks away, muttering something under her breath. The second she’s out of earshot, your teammates lose it.

Liv practically collapses against you. "An elbow?" she howls. "That’s the best you could come up with?"

Marta wipes tears from her eyes. "Who knew Alexia Putellas had such sharp elbows, huh?"

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. "I hate all of you."

Maya grins. "No you don’t. But what we do hate is you keeping secrets. So, after training—"

"No."

"—you’re giving us details."

"Absolutely not."

Liv slings an arm around your shoulders. "Oh, babe," she says sweetly, "I wasn’t asking."

Training is brutal—not because the drills are particularly hard, but because your teammates won’t let up. Every time you so much as breathe near one of them, there’s a smirk, a whispered comment, or an exaggerated glance at your neck.

Marta jogs past you during a passing drill and mutters, "Hope Alexia stretched properly before last night. Wouldn’t want Spain’s captain pulling something."

Claudia bumps your shoulder in a small-sided game. "You sure you’re not sore? Sounds like a lot of touching on that balcony."

Even Maya, usually the least chaotic, raises an eyebrow as you line up for sprints. "Didn’t know you had a thing for exhibitionism," she muses. "Good to know."

By the time the session ends, you’re exhausted—and not just from the running. You make a beeline for the showers, hoping to escape before anyone can ambush you with more questions. You fail. Spectacularly. The second you step into the locker room, the door shuts behind you with a click, and suddenly, you’re cornered.

Marta flops onto the bench, stretching out like she owns the place. "Alright, princesa," she grins, "spill."

You groan. "I already told you—"

"You told us nothing," Liv interrupts. "Except that it wasn’t a back room. And your face said it was more than making out."

A chorus of ooohs follows. Your face burns. "I meant—"

"No, no," Claudia cuts in, wagging a finger. "You can’t backtrack now. You dropped that little bombshell, and we will be getting details."

Maya leans forward. "So, the VIP balcony, huh?" Her eyes gleam. "You know people could see you, right?"

You rub your hands over your face. "We were near the back of it, you couldn’t see.”

"No?" Marta smirks. "Because from what we’ve seen, you two weren’t exactly keeping things low-key any other time.”

You glare at her. "We weren’t thinking about that.”

"Mmm," Liv hums, "so what were you thinking about?"

You open your mouth—then shut it immediately when you realise there’s no safe way to answer that.

Marta howls. "Look at her! She’s thinking about it right now!"

You groan, head dropping back against the lockers. "I hate you all so much."

"No you don’t," Liv grins. "Now, be a good teammate and tell us everything.

"Was it against the wall?" Claudia demands.

"Or was there, like, a couch or—"

"Jesus Christ," you groan, throwing your head back. “We’re circling, Can you all chill?!”

"Absolutely not," Liv grins. "You know we have no other drama or gossip around here!”

Marta leans forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. "So…?"

The room goes silent, everyone hanging on your answer.

You exhale, dragging a hand down your face, but eventually… you can’t help the small smirk tugging at your lips. "It was…" You hesitate, then shake your head, biting back a very incriminating smile.

Another explosion of noise.

"OH MY GOD, IT WAS THAT GOOD?!"

"YOU’RE ACTUALLY BLUSHING."

"PUTELLAS BROKE HER, GUYS."

Maya pretends to wipe a tear. "They grow up so fast."

You exhale sharply, dragging your hands down your face before finally looking at them. "Fine. You want details? You got them."

They practically vibrate with anticipation, leaning in like a pack of gossip-starved wolves.

"The kissing," you start, your voice steady even as your stomach flips at the memory. "God, the kissing. She—" You shake your head, biting your lip. "She kisses like she plays. Intense. In control. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing and exactly what she wants."

Liv groans, clutching her chest dramatically. "I knew she’d be like that. Knew it."

Marta fans herself. "Continue."

You huff a laugh, running a hand through your hair. "It started slow. Teasing. She likes to make you wait for it, make you want it. But when she gives in? Fuck. She doesn’t hold back. One second, it was just this slow, heated build-up, and the next, it was—" You cut yourself off, shaking your head. "Messy. Breathless. The kind that makes your knees weak."

"And the touching?" Claudia presses, eyes wide. "You said there was touching."

You swallow hard, heat creeping up your neck, but there's no backing out now. "It was—" You search for the right words, but they all feel inadequate. "She’s got strong hands. You feel it when she touches you. When she grabs your waist, pulls you against her—"

Maya exhales sharply. "Shit."

"—And then her hands are everywhere, right?" Liv urges. "Like, everywhere?"

Your silence says enough.

Marta slaps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with delight. "No."

"Yes, her hands just moved that way and I didn’t stop her” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. "She—fuck, she knows what she’s doing. She knows how to pull you apart with just her hands. And we weren’t thinking about where we were, or who could see, or anything except—" You stop yourself, shaking your head, chest tight. "It was just—intense."

For a moment, there’s nothing but stunned silence.

"You got fingered on a VIP balcony," Liv finally breathes. "I am never letting you live this down."

You groan, burying your face in your hands. "We didn’t—"

"No, no," Marta waves you off. "That was implied."

Claudia shakes her head, grinning. "Jesus. I thought you were just sneaking around. I did not expect you to be feral."

"It wasn’t like—" You stop, realising you have absolutely no defence. "Okay, maybe a little."

Liv snickers. "You are so down bad, babe."

You don’t even argue. Because, honestly?

Yeah. You might be.

Your phone buzzes with a text. Not the group chat. Not social media.

Liv lifts her chin, “Who dat?”

You smiled raising your eyes, “Alexia”

“What does she want?” Liv asked, “She found another public place to finger you in”

“Ok” You groan, “Too much”

Alexia: Morning. We should talk. Coffee?

Your heart does a complicated somersault. Three simple sentences that somehow manage to sound both casual and ominous.

You: When and where?

Her response comes immediately.

Alexia: The place on Carrer de València. 30 minutes?

You glance at the clock. That doesn't give you much time.

You: I'll be there.

You're dressed and out the door in record time, grateful for the sunglasses hiding your eyes as you navigate streets already buzzing with speculation. Two teenagers recognise you, whispering and giggling as you pass. A street vendor selling newspapers gives you a knowing wink.

The café is tucked away on a quiet corner, the kind of place locals frequent and tourists rarely find. When you step inside, you spot her immediately—corner table, back to the wall, baseball cap pulled low over her face. Classic celebrity incognito. It wouldn't work for long, but it might buy you a few minutes of privacy.

She looks up as you approach, her expression unreadable behind large sunglasses. When you sit across from her, she pushes a coffee toward you.

"I remembered how you take it," she says quietly.

You take a sip—perfect. The small gesture shouldn't make your chest tighten, but it does.

"So," you begin, because someone has to, "we're trending."

A faint smile touches her lips. "Not the first time. Won't be the last."

"Is that all you have to say about it?"

She removes her sunglasses, folding them carefully beside her cup. The morning light catches in her eyes, turning them the colour of whiskey. Without the barrier of tinted glass between you, her gaze is direct, unflinching.

"What do you want me to say?" she asks quietly. "That I regret it? Because I don't."

The directness of her response makes your stomach flip. You take another sip of coffee to buy yourself time, to steady your nerves. "I don't regret it either," you admit, watching her shoulders relax slightly at your words. “I can’t stop thinking about it actually… that’s not like me at all, I don’t do that”

"Neither do I," Alexia says, her voice low enough that only you can hear. She traces the rim of her coffee cup with one finger, a gesture so casually intimate it makes your throat go dry. "But here we are."

The cafe bustles around you—baristas calling out orders, the hiss of steam wands, the murmur of morning conversations—but in your corner, time seems suspended. You study her face, noting the shadows beneath her eyes that suggest she slept as poorly as you did.

"Our teams are going to have a field day with this," you say, trying to inject some lightness into the conversation.

She laughs softly, shaking her head. "Mine already is. Aitana sent me seventeen texts before I even got out of bed."

"Only seventeen? My group chat has over two hundred messages." You pull out your phone to show her, and your fingers brush as she takes it, sending that same electric current through you that you felt last night. Remembering where they'd been.

Her eyes scan the messages, a small smile playing at her lips. "Your teammates seem... supportive."

"They're nosey is what they are," you counter, but there's no heat in it. "What about yours?"

Alexia hands your phone back, her expression turning thoughtful. "They're protective. They've seen how the media can be when it comes to my personal life."

The reminder of who she is—of who you both are—settles between you like a physical presence. This isn't just about two people attracted to each other. It's about two public figures, two competitors, two women navigating a world that will dissect every interaction.

"So what now?" you ask, echoing her words from last night, but this time in the harsh light of day, with real consequences looming.

Alexia leans forward, her elbows on the table, eyes fixed on yours. "That depends. Was last night just... letting off steam? Getting it out of our systems?" Her voice remains steady, but you catch the slight tension in her jaw, the way her fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around her cup.

The question hangs between you, loaded with implications. The smart answer would be yes—a one-time thing, exciting and memorable but ultimately contained. No complications, no distractions from the season ahead. But looking at her now, remembering the way she'd whispered your name, the vulnerability in her eyes afterward... you know it would be a lie. “You like the chase remember? You tell me, you got what you wanted”

Alexia exhales sharply, a quiet laugh escaping as she shakes her head. "That’s not fair," she murmurs, her fingers still curled around her coffee cup. "You make it sound like this was just a game to me."

"Wasn't it?" you challenge, arching a brow. You don't mean it as an accusation, not really, but you’re still trying to figure out where the line between competition and something more actually is with her. "You spent weeks taunting me, pushing my buttons, daring me to push back. You got what you wanted, didn't you?" 

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she looks at you for a long moment, as if deciding how honest she wants to be. "Maybe I did," she admits finally, voice quieter now, more measured. "But that doesn’t mean I’m done."

The words send a slow ripple of heat through you, and you don’t even bother pretending they don’t. "Yeah?" you murmur, tilting your head slightly. "And what does that mean, exactly?"

"It means…" She trails off, exhaling as she leans back in her chair. "It means I haven’t figured that part out yet." She gives you a rueful look. "Not used to this, either."

That admission surprises you, but it also sends a pulse of satisfaction through you. You’re not the only one thrown off balance. "Alright," you say after a beat. "Then let’s figure it out."

Alexia watches you carefully. "And how do we do that?"

You consider for a second before responding. "For starters, we stop pretending we don’t actually want each other. We agree we’re not wanting more than a bit of …fun." 

She nods slowly, as if turning the idea over in her head. "And what about everything else? The press, our teams, the season?"

"One orgasm at a time," you say, offering her the faintest smirk. "Unless you’re afraid of a little fun, capitana."

That makes her huff a quiet laugh, shaking her head at you. "You really never back down, do you?"

"Not when something’s worth it."

Alexia’s expression flickers, something shifting behind her eyes, but before you can dissect it, she reaches for her sunglasses again. The moment passes, but the weight of it lingers.

"Okay," she says, voice steady. "One orgasm at a time. Eleven.”

Possible Sequel

🥂❤️

Apart of Perfect Shot Series

You and Alexia's wedding Day

The sun is just beginning to rise over Barcelona when you wake up. Soft, golden light filters through the windows, casting a warm glow over the room. Your heart is already racing before you even fully open your eyes, the realisation hitting you like a tidal wave.

It’s today.

Your wedding day.

You turn your head slightly, expecting to find Alexia beside you, but the bed is empty. A sleepy smile tugs at your lips. Of course, she’s already gone. You had promised each other, no seeing one another before the ceremony. She must have snuck out in the early hours, letting you have one last morning as an almost before you officially become hers forever.

There’s a soft knock at the door before it creaks open slightly. Carla peeks her head in, eyes full of excitement. “Buenos días, future Mrs. Putellas.”

You groan, throwing a pillow at her. “Shut up.”

She laughs, dodging it effortlessly. “Nope, not happening. Get up. We have a wedding to get ready for.”

You sit up slowly, the nerves mixing with the sheer thrill of knowing by the end of the day, you’ll be married to the love of your life.

Carla walks in fully now, setting a cup of coffee on your nightstand. “How are you feeling?”

You exhale deeply, stretching your arms over your head. “Honestly? A little nervous.”

She plops down on the edge of your bed, crossing her legs. “That’s normal. But also kind of ridiculous because let’s be real, you and Alexia have been married in every sense of the word for years now.”

You laugh softly because she’s not wrong.

The next few hours blur into a whirlwind of activity. Your bridal party, Carla, Ingrid, you got Ingrid Alexia got Mapi that was the deal, and a few of your closest friends from work flit around, making sure everything is perfect. There’s music playing in the background, champagne being passed around, laughter echoing through the air.

At one point, Eli arrives, her eyes already glassy with emotion as she cups your face. “You are so beautiful,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “She’s going to cry when she sees you.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I think I’m going to cry first.”

Eli chuckles, wiping away the tear that slips down your cheek. “That’s what I brought tissues for.”

The dress is waiting for you, hanging by the window, its fabric catching the morning light in the most breathtaking way. As you step into it, as the zipper is carefully pulled up, as your hands smooth over the delicate fabric, it hits you, this is real.

This is happening.

Ingrid lets out a dramatic sniffle as she watches you. “Okay, yeah. I’m crying.”

Carla, ever the menace, smirks. “We should place bets on how long Alexia lasts before she starts crying at the altar.”

Ingrid snorts. “No way she makes it past five seconds.”

Eli shakes her head fondly. “She won’t even make it to when you walk down the aisle.”

You roll your eyes but smile, already picturing Alexia’s face when she sees you for the first time.

Then, as if on cue, your phone buzzes on the table. A message. From her.

Alexia: No seeing each other before the wedding. But just so you know, I already know you’re the most beautiful person in the world today. See you soon, mi amor.❤️

Your breath catches, your heart skipping a beat.

Carla leans over your shoulder, reading it before dramatically placing a hand over her heart. “She’s so obsessed with you. It’s disgusting.”

You just smile, warmth spreading through your chest. Yeah. She was.

By the end of today, she’s going to be your wife. Eli gave you big hugs and kisses and promises to see you soon but of course she was going to go be with Alexia.

The car ride to the venue feels surreal. The streets of Barcelona blur past the window, but you barely notice them. Your hands are clasped together in your lap, knuckles white as you try to keep your nerves at bay.

Ingrid sits beside you, her presence calm and steady, her hand resting gently on your knee, grounding you in the moment. In the front seat, Aitana is unsurprisingly arguing with Carla over something completely ridiculous.

“I swear, Carla, if you trip and take me down with you, I’m never letting you be in my wedding when it’s my turn,” Aitana huffs, arms crossed.

Carla scoffs. “First of all, rude. Second, you act like you wouldn’t be the one to trip first.”

“You’re literally the one who fell off a treadmill last week.”

“That was one time!”

You tune them out, heart racing as you glance down at your phone. No messages from Alexia this time. The next time you see her, it’ll be at the altar. Your wife-to-be.

Ingrid must sense your nerves because she squeezes your knee lightly. “Breath.”

You take a slow, deep breath, forcing yourself to relax.

“You’ve been ready for this for a long time,” Ingrid continues in that soft, reassuring voice of hers. “She’s waiting for you. That’s all that matters.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod. “I know. I just—” You exhale shakily. “It’s a lot.”

Ingrid gives you a small smile. “That’s how you know it’s real.”

The car finally pulls up to the venue an elegant villa nestled along the countryside, the perfect mix of intimacy and beauty. The moment you step out, the warm breeze carries the faint sound of music, guests murmuring softly inside, waiting.

Carla climbs out first, stretching dramatically. “Alright. Everyone still has their balance? No sudden injuries? No broken ankles?”

Aitana rolls her eyes. “Tú eres un caso.”

You laugh, shaking your head, but thenyour breath catches as your gaze drifts toward the grand double doors leading inside.

This is it. The nerves come rushing back tenfold.

Ingrid notices immediately, stepping close. “Babe” she murmurs. “She’s just on the other side of those doors, waiting for you.”

You nod, trying to swallow the wave of emotions building in your chest.

Carla and Aitana exchange glances before stepping away slightly, giving you a moment.

The doors are still closed, but you can feel it, the anticipation, the weight of this moment. Behind them, Alexia is standing at the altar, waiting for you.

Your fingers tighten around the bouquet in your hands. Your heart is pounding. Then, the music shifts.

Your cue.

Carla grins, winking at you. “Showtime.”

Ingrid presses a kiss to your temple. “Go to her,”

You take a deep breath, steady yourself, and the doors begin to open.

The doors swing open, and for a split second, everything is silent.

The music plays softly in the background, the gentle hum of a string quartet filling the space, but you can’t hear it, not over the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your chest.

Your breath catches. Because there she is.

Alexia.

Standing at the altar, her hands clasped in front of her, looking like something straight out of a dream. She’s dressed in the most elegant suit, tailored perfectly to her frame, her hair swept back just enough to show the way her jaw tenses, the way her lips part slightly as she takes in the sight of you.

You barely make it two steps before you see it, her eyes are glassy, her chest rising and falling with deep, measured breaths like she’s trying desperately to keep it together.

Then, she blinks, and a single tear slips down her cheek. And that’s when it hits you. You were never going to make it down the aisle dry-eyed.

The emotions well up too quickly, your vision blurring as you take your first step forward. Your fingers tighten around the bouquet, your breath shaky, but you don’t stop. You can’t.

Not when she’s standing there looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. Not when she’s wiping away that lone tear, smiling so softly, so tenderly that it makes your knees weak. Not when every step forward is a step closer to forever.

Carla walks beside you, her usual playful demeanor softened by the significance of the moment. Aitana and Ingrid follow just behind, but you barely register anything beyond the way Alexia’s eyes never leave yours.

You can see the way she’s gripping her hands together, her fingers fidgeting slightly like she’s stopping herself from running down the aisle and meeting you halfway.

And God, you kind of wish she would.

The distance feels too long, the anticipation too much.

When you reach the halfway point, another tear slips from your eye, and before you can even think about stopping it, Alexia exhales sharply, her face completely crumbling for a second.

Her lips tremble, and she sniffs, wiping at her face almost angrily, like she can’t be breaking down right now—but she is. Your cool calm collected poised partner of four years, totally is.

You let out a breathy laugh through your own tears, shaking your head. She does the same. You both do.

By the time you reach the front, you can’t hold back anymore. Your free hand reaches instinctively for hers, breaking the traditional etiquette of waiting, but you don’t care.

And neither does she.

The moment her fingers touch yours, she squeezes so tight you think she might be holding on for dear life.

Her thumb brushes over your knuckles, a silent message, a whispered I love you without saying a word.

You sniffle, laughing softly, and whisper, “You’re crying.”

Alexia lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking her head. “Tú también.”

The officiant clears their throat gently, and you realize that technically, you’re supposed to let go of her hand right now.

But neither of you move. Neither of you want to. This is it. The moment before everything changes, before every promise you’ve ever whispered to each other in the dead of night is spoken out loud for the world to hear.

And as you stand there, with the love of your life holding onto you like you’re the only thing keeping her grounded, you know—

You’d walk down this aisle a thousand times over. As long as she’s always waiting for you at the end. Everything feels like a blur an overwhelmingly beautiful blur.

The ceremony, the vows, the way Alexia looked at you like you had just hung the stars in the sky every moment is burned into your memory, but it still doesn’t feel real.

Not until you hear it.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you wife and wife.”

A pause.

A heartbeat.

“You may kiss—”

But Alexia doesn’t wait. She moves before the officiant even finishes the sentence, her hands cupping your face, her lips crashing against yours with a desperate, almost relieved kind of urgency.

And you melt into it. The sound of your friends and family erupting into cheers barely registers. The only thing you can focus on is her, the way her hands shake slightly against your skin, the way she breathes you in between kisses like she’s been waiting a lifetime for this moment.

When she finally pulls away, your forehead rests against hers, both of you grinning so wide it almost hurts.

“You’re my wife,” you whisper breathlessly.

Alexia laughs softly, her thumb brushing over your cheek. “Say it again.”

You beam, tightening your grip on her. “My wife. Mi Esposa”

She kisses you again, short, but full of so much love it makes your knees weak. Then, together, hand in hand, you turn to face the crowd. A shower of white flower petals rains down around you as you make your way back down the aisle, both of you laughing, wiping at your damp eyes, unable to let go of each other’s hands for even a second.

It’s perfect.

But as soon as you step inside the quiet hallway leading toward the garden, away from the noise, the guests, the cameras, Alexia pulls you to the side.

Just the two of you. Finally.

She exhales sharply, as if she’s been holding her breath this entire time, before she wraps her arms around you, burying her face in your neck.

Your hands immediately slip into her hair, holding her close. “Hey,” you whisper softly, “we did it.”

She nods against you, breathing you in. “We did it.”

For a long moment, neither of you move.

You just exist in the silence, in the warmth of each other’s arms, in the weight of everything that just happened.

Then, she pulls back slightly, her hands settling on your waist, her eyes roaming over every inch of your face like she’s memorising you all over again.

“You are so beautiful,” she murmurs. “I still can’t believe you’re mine.”

You smile, brushing your thumb over her cheek. “Forever.”

Alexia closes her eyes briefly, letting that word settle in before she nods. Then, without warning, she lifts you off the ground, spinning you in a slow, dizzying circle. You squeal, laughing as you grip onto her shoulders.

“Alexia!”

She grins up at you. “I had to. I just married you, I get to do whatever I want now.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but you know she’s right.

Because this is forever now.

Your forever.

Your wife.

The wedding reception is everything you could have dreamed of, laughter, music, love filling every inch of the space. The venue glows under the golden evening light, fairy lights strung above the tables creating a soft, intimate atmosphere. Everywhere you turn, there’s someone smiling, someone dancing, someone toasting to you and Alexia and the life you’ve just promised to share.

Alexia is currently caught up in conversation with some of her teammates, her hand still very much attached to yours like she can’t quite let go yet. It’s been like that all evening small touches, quiet glances, the occasional kiss when she thinks no one is looking.

But there’s something you still need to do before the night fully takes over. You catch Alba’s eye first, then Eli’s. A silent understanding passes between you, and they both follow as you gently squeeze Alexia’s hand in reassurance and slip away from the crowd.

Eli is quiet as you lead her toward the top table, where the two of you wives now will soon take your seats. Alba follows closely, her usual energy subdued, sensing the weight of whatever it is you’re about to show them.

And then, they see it. An extra chair. A place carefully set, just like every other. And, resting in the middle of the plate, a framed picture of Alexia’s father. Eli stops abruptly, her breath catching in her throat. Her hands fly to her mouth as she takes in the sight before her, eyes instantly glassy with unshed tears.

Alba stands frozen beside her, blinking hard, her jaw clenched like she’s trying to keep it together.

You swallow past the lump in your throat, stepping forward gently. “I—I wanted to make sure he was here with you tonight,” you whisper. “With her. With all of us.”

Eli exhales sharply, shaking her head as a tear slips free, but her lips curve into the softest, most grateful smile. “Mi amor…”

You reach out, taking her hands in yours, squeezing them tightly. “I know how much she wishes he was here.” Your voice is barely above a whisper now. “And I know how much he would be, if he could.”

Alba finally moves, running a hand over her face before huffing out a shaky breath. “She’s—she’s going to lose it when she sees this.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh, nodding. “I know.”

Eli reaches out, brushing her fingers over the picture gently, her touch lingering as she takes a slow, deep breath. Then, she looks at you, her expression soft, full of so much love that it nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

“She chose well,” she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion. “So, so well.”

You sniffle, squeezing her hand. “I’m just lucky she chose me.”

Alba finally cracks, letting out a teary chuckle as she nudges you lightly. “You’re gonna make me cry again,” she mutters.

You laugh softly, wiping at your own eyes. “I think that was inevitable.”

Eli lets out a small, watery chuckle, shaking her head before she pulls you into a hug. “Thank you,” she whispers into your hair. “For this. For loving her.”

You cling to her tightly. “Always.”

As you step back, Alba clears her throat, clapping her hands together to break the emotion swirling in the air. “Okay,” she says, sniffling one last time before straightening her shoulders. “How long do we give her before she notices?”

You smirk, glancing over at Alexia, who is still deep in conversation, completely unaware.

“Not long,” you murmur.

Alexia was in the middle of a conversation with Mapi and Ingrid when she caught something out of the corner of her eye—Eli wiping at her cheeks, Alba shifting awkwardly beside her, both of them standing near the top table where you had just been.

Her stomach instantly twists. She excuses herself without a second thought, her mind racing as she crosses the room.

“Mami?” Her voice is laced with concern as she reaches them, her gaze flicking between her mother and sister. “What’s wrong?”

Eli quickly shakes her head, still dabbing at her eyes. “Nada, mi amor,” she assures softly. “Just… come with me.”

Alexia frowns, not entirely convinced, but Eli reaches for her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze before leading her toward the table.

Alba doesn’t say a word—just steps aside, swallowing hard as she watches her sister move closer. And then Alexia sees it. Her breath catches instantly, her entire body going still as her gaze lands on the extra chair, the carefully set place, the framed photo staring back at her.

The picture of him. Her father.

A soft, shaky exhale slips from her lips as the weight of it settles in her chest. She doesn’t move at first—just stands there, eyes darting over every detail. The chair tucked in like he really belongs there. The glass set, the plate, the tiny flower laid beside the photo.

Her throat tightens.

Her hand instinctively grips Eli’s, and when she finally finds the strength to glance at her mother, she sees nothing but understanding in her eyes.

“She did this for you,” Eli whispers, squeezing her fingers. “Because she knew.”

Alexia lets out a breathy, broken laugh, blinking rapidly. “Of course she did.”

Eli smiles through her own tears. “She always knows.”

Alexia sniffs, shaking her head as she wipes at her face, trying to pull herself together, but it’s useless.

Because he’s here. He’s with her.

Alba clears her throat beside her, nudging her gently. “She didn’t want to tell you. She wanted you to just… see it.”

Alexia swallows hard, nodding slowly, her eyes locked onto the framed photo.

Her father’s eyes. His smile.

Her heart aches, but it’s a different kind of ache, softer. Lighter.

It doesn’t feel like a loss. It feels like love.

And suddenly, she needs to find you. Her head snaps up, scanning the crowd frantically until finally she spots you, standing off to the side, caught in conversation with a few of her distant cousins.

Without thinking, without hesitation, she moves. She needs you. She crosses the room in quick strides, barely giving you a chance to react before she’s there, wrapping her arms around you from behind, burying her face in your shoulder.

You let out a soft gasp, instantly placing your hands over hers. “Lex?”

She exhales against your skin, nodding before she murmurs, “I saw.”

And just like that, you know. You turn in her arms, tilting her face up gently, and when you see the tears in her eyes, the overwhelming emotion threatening to spill over, you don’t say anything.

You just hold her. She melts into you, tucking her face into your neck, letting out a small, shaky breath.

“I just wanted him to be here with you,” you whisper, running a soothing hand down her back.

Alexia sniffles, pressing her forehead against yours. “He is.”

Your chest tightens as she pulls back just enough to cup your face, her thumb brushing against your cheek.

“I love you,” she whispers, voice thick with emotion. “I love you so much.”

You smile softly, pressing your lips against hers in a kiss that says everything words never could. And as she holds you close, with the sound of laughter and music still carrying through the night, Alexia knows her father is here.

And you are her home.

The reception is in full swingwine glasses clinking, laughter echoing through the villa, warmth filling every corner of the room. You can feel the buzz of happiness in the air, wrapping around you like the soft golden glow of the fairy lights strung above the tables. And then, as the music fades slightly, Eli stands up.

The room hushes instantly, all eyes turning to Alexia’s mother as she clears her throat, her expression soft but full of something deeper something unbreakable.

She glances at you and Alexia, her daughters sitting side by side, hands intertwined under the table. Then, she smiles.

“Buenas noches a todos.”

A wave of quiet chuckles spreads across the crowd as she smirks. “I will not take too long because I know everyone is eager to get back to the dancing, especially Alba, who has already had three glasses of wine and keeps trying to challenge Aitana to a dance battle.”

Laughter ripples through the room, breaking any lingering nerves Eli might have had.

She turns back to you and Alexia, her gaze softening. “Today is a day full of love,” she continues. “Not just because of the two incredible people we are here to celebrate, but because love is what brought us here in the first place. And love is what will keep us together for the rest of our lives.” Alexia’s grip on your hand tightens. “I don’t have to tell you all who my daughter is,” Eli says, glancing toward her eldest child with a twinkle in her eye. “The world knows who she is. A leader, a fighter, the most determined person I’ve ever met. But before she was that before she was the Alexia Putellas that people chant for in the stadium she was just my little girl.” Alexia shifts in her seat, blinking rapidly. Eli exhales, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. “And then you came along.” She turns to you now, her eyes filled with something deeply maternal. “I don’t know if I ever told you this, but I knew immediately that you were the one for her. The very first time I saw her with you, there was something different. Something softer in the way she spoke, something lighter in the way she moved.” A lump forms in your throat. “I have never seen her happier than she is with you.” Eli’s voice wavers slightly, but she holds strong. “And as a mother, all you ever want is for your children to find that kind of happiness. That kind of love.” You don’t even realize you’re crying until Alexia reaches up and wipes a stray tear from your cheek. Eli smiles warmly, lifting her glass. “So, let’s raise a toast to my daughter, to my new daughter, and to a love that will last forever.”

The room erupts into applause, glasses clinking as everyone cheers. You turn to Alexia, her face a mixture of quiet emotion and pure love. She leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your temple.

Then, before the room can settle, Alba slams her hands on the table and stands up.

“Alright, my turn!” she announces dramatically.

Carla groans. “Oh no.”

Alexia pinches the bridge of her nose. “This is already a disaster.”

You chuckle, watching Alba pick up her glass and hold it high. “First of all, let’s acknowledge the real MVP of this wedding me because without me, I’m not sure Alexia would have ever admitted she was in love.”

Alexia glares. “That is absolutely not true.”

Alba winks. “Not saying I’m responsible, but I’m also not not saying it.”

Laughter ripples through the room again. She turns to you now, and suddenly, her usually playful demeanor shifts. “I joke a lot, but I need to be serious for a second.” She takes a deep breath. “I’ve spent my whole life looking up to Alexia. Not just because she’s my sister, but because she’s my best friend. And I always wondered if there was anyone out there who could match her who could truly be what she needed.” She glances at you, her eyes shining. “And then you came along. And suddenly, my sister wasn’t just my sister anymore. She was herself in a way I had never seen before. And I knew. I knew you were her forever.” Alexia swallows hard, looking away briefly like she’s trying to compose herself. Alba grins now, raising her glass. “So, as the official bestower of blessings, I give my very important stamp of approval to this marriage. Not that you needed it, but still.”

The room laughs, raising their glasses again. Alexia groans but reaches for her sister’s hand, squeezing it briefly in gratitude.

As the laughter settles, you take a deep breath and stand up. Alexia’s head snaps toward you, her brows furrowing slightly.

“Wait,” she whispers. “I thought—”

You smirk. “You hate public speaking, so I figured I’d do it for us.”

A few amused chuckles ripple through the room. You stand, feeling the weight of Alexia’s gaze settle on you instantly. She wasn’t expecting this. You hadn’t told her. But she hates public speaking, and there’s no way you were going to let her suffer through this part alone. So here you are, standing in front of a room filled with all the people who love you both, your heart pounding as you look at your wife—the woman you are lucky enough to spend forever with. You clear your throat, letting the soft hum of quiet settle over the room before you begin.

“I wasn’t supposed to give a speech tonight,” you admit, smiling slightly as a few chuckles ripple through the crowd. “But I figured since Alexia hates public speaking almost as much as she loves me, I’d do this one for us.” More laughter, but Alexia just shakes her head at you, eyes already shimmering. You take a deep breath. “I don’t really know how to put into words what today means. What she means,” you say softly, glancing at Alexia. “I could stand up here for hours and still never fully explain what it feels like to be loved by her. What it feels like to know that every morning I wake up, she’s going to be there. That every bad day, every hard moment, every time I start to doubt myself she’s there, looking at me like I’m the best thing in the world.” Alexia sniffs, blinking rapidly, but you continue. “She is the strongest, most determined person I have ever met. She puts her whole heart into everything she does whether it’s football, or family, or making sure I never leave the house without a jacket because she swears I always get cold.” Laughter fills the room again, and you pause, letting it settle before continuing. “But more than anything, she is home to me,” you say, voice quieter now. “Loving her is the easiest, most natural thing I’ve ever done. She is my best friend, my greatest love, my everything. And today, I got to promise to love her forever. A promise I would have made a thousand times over.” Alexia wipes at her cheek now, and you reach out instinctively, squeezing her hand before continuing. “There’s someone missing today,” you say, and the room falls completely silent. You feel the shift, feel the way Alexia’s grip tightens around yours, feel the way Eli’s breath catches. “I never got the chance to meet Alexia’s father,” you say softly. “But I wish I could have. Because if the way his daughters turned out is any reflection of the kind of man he was, then I know, I know, he was an incredible man.” Alexia’s chest rises and falls in a deep, steady breath, but her eyes are locked onto yours, unblinking, feeling every word you say. “I’ve heard many stories seeing many videos and many pictures and I see him in Alexia every day. In the way she loves, in the way she fights for what matters, in the way she never gives up. And I see him in Alba, too. In her fire, in her passion, in the way she refuses to do anything quietly.”

That earns a watery chuckle from Alba, and you smile.

“I know that if he were here today, he would be so unbelievably proud. Not just of the woman Alexia has become, but of the family she has built around her. The love she gives. The way she makes the people in her life better just by being in it.” You take a deep breath.

“And I promise you, mi amor I will spend every single day making sure you feel that love. That pride. That safety. Because you deserve nothing less.” Alexia blinks rapidly, her lips pressing together tightly, her free hand lifting to wipe at her cheek again.

You glance around the room then, your heart racing, and then you take a deep breath, and you switch.

“Avui és el dia més bonic de la meva vida.”

(Today is the most beautiful day of my life.)

The entire room gasps.

You hear someone slap the table probably Carla. Someone else mutters “No way.” Alexia’s jaw drops.

“I wanted to take a moment to say something important,” you continue, in perfect Catalan, watching as her eyes fill with even more tears. “Today has been perfect in so many ways, but what makes it truly special is all of you. This family. The people who have welcomed me into their hearts, who have loved me as one of their own.” Her grip on your hand tightens—desperate, overwhelmed. You smile, speaking directly to her now.

“Et prometo que sempre et cuidaré, sempre estaré al teu costat i sempre estimaré cada part de qui ets.” (I promise I will always take care of you, always stand by your side, and always love every part of who you are.)

Alexia makes a choked sound, a tear slipping down her cheek. You take a deep breath, blinking through your own emotions before finishing.

“Gràcies per donar-me la teva vida, el teu amor i la teva família. Sempre seré teva.” (Thank you for giving me your life, your love, and your family. I will always be yours.)

A beat of stunned silence.

Then absolute chaos.

People are cheering. Clapping. Carla is banging the table, half screaming. “WHAT THE HELL?! WHEN DID YOU LEARN THAT?!”

You laugh, cheeks burning, looking back at Alexia only to yelp as she grabs your face and kisses you senseless. The room erupts.

Alexia’s hands are cradling your jaw, her lips fierce against yours, like she can’t hold back. Like she has to kiss you or she might actually explode. She pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead pressed to yours, her eyes wild with love.

“You, you just” she stammers. “How?”

You grin, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “Secretly learned it. Just for today.”

She laughs, breathless, shaking her head. “I cannot believe you did that.”

You smirk. “I’d do anything for you.”

Her hands tighten on you, her lips brushing against yours again. “I love you so much it’s ridiculous.”

You chuckle. “Good. Because you’re stuck with me forever.” And as the entire room celebrates, as Alexia kisses you again softer this time, like a thank you whispered into your lips you know.

You know. This moment, this love, this life it’s yours.

Forever.

The wedding had been everything you had dreamed of—maybe even more.

It had been filled with laughter, with love so thick in the air you could feel it, with the warmth of everyone who mattered most. But now, the music had faded, the guests had gone home, and the two of you had finally stepped away from the celebration into the quiet intimacy of your wedding night.

Now, it was just you and her.

The hotel suite was bathed in soft, golden light, the glow of the city filtering in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

You turned slightly, catching your reflection in the mirror as you reached up to unclip your earrings, but before you could, a voice—low and full of something darker, something deeper—stopped you.

“Don’t.”

You froze, your breath catching in your throat, before turning to face her.

Alexia was leaning against the doorframe, still dressed in the suit she had worn for the wedding—the perfectly tailored black ensemble that had made your heart stop when you first saw her at the altar.

And now, as she stood there, hands in her pockets, eyes dark as they traced over your form, you felt that same breathless ache in your chest.

She looked at you like you were something precious.

Like she was trying to memorise every inch of you.

Her lips curled into something soft, but there was a hunger beneath it, a slow burn flickering in her gaze.

“God,” she murmured, shaking her head slightly. “You’re beautiful.”

Heat flared in your stomach.

She stepped closer, her movements slow, deliberate, like she wanted to savor every second of this.

When she reached you, she reached up, her fingers barely ghosting over your waist.

Her eyes flickered over your dress—the same dress she had seen you in all night, the one she had struggled to take her eyes off of, the one that had nearly undone her at the altar.

Her voice was softer this time, almost reverent.

“You are stunning, mi amor.”

You shivered at the way she said it, at the way her fingers traced lightly over the delicate fabric.

Then she leaned in, her lips grazing your ear, her breath warm against your skin as she whispered,

“How does it feel?”

Your throat was dry. “How does what feel?”

She pulled back just enough to look at you, her thumb brushing along your jaw, her expression pure adoration.

“To be Mrs. Putellas.”

A rush of heat shot through you, warmth curling in your chest and pooling in your stomach at the way she said it.

You loved the way it sounded.

The way it felt.

The weight of her name wrapped around yours, binding you forever to her.

You swallowed, barely able to find your voice. “Say it again.”

Alexia smirked now, a knowing, teasing thing.

“Mrs. Putellas,” she murmured, her lips pressing softly against the corner of your mouth.

You melted into her, your hands sliding up her chest, gripping the lapels of her suit as you tugged her closer.

She let out a soft chuckle, her hands settling at your waist, pulling you flush against her.

“I like the way that sounds,” you admitted breathlessly.

She hummed in agreement, her fingers tracing the outline of your dress.

“I like the way it looks on you.”

Your pulse hammered, your head spinning from the intensity of her gaze.

“Alexia…” you whispered, your fingers twisting in the fabric of her suit jacket.

She tilted her head slightly, studying you, memorising you, before dipping her head to press a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder.

“I love you,” she murmured against your skin.

Your breath hitched.

“I love you too,” you whispered back, your heart full to bursting.

And as she took her time, loving you the way only she could—with soft whispers, tender touches, and an overwhelming depth of adoration—you knew one thing for certain.

Being Mrs. Putellas was the most incredible thing in the world.

Tia Alexia And Her Mascot

Alexia Putellas x Mila

The gym was quiet except for the rhythmic sound of Alexia Putellas’ breathing and the occasional clang of weights hitting the floor. She was deep into her training session, pushing herself to be in the best shape possible. The Champions League quarterfinal second leg was coming up, and nothing mattered more than being ready. Her focus was razor-sharp, her expression serious, and her mind locked in.

That was, until she heard the unmistakable sound of tiny feet running across the gym floor.

Alexia barely had time to put the weights down before a small, dark-haired blur skidded to a stop a few feet away from her.

Mila.

With her messy hair, rosy cheeks, and an ever-present twinkle in her eyes, Mila was a walking ball of energy. She had likely spent the entire morning running around, climbing on things she shouldn’t, and making her mothers chase after her.

But right now, something was different. Instead of launching herself at Alexia like she usually did, Mila hesitated. She fiddled with her fingers, glancing at the ground, looking almost… unsure.

Alexia wiped the sweat off her face with a towel, then sat down on the bench. She narrowed her eyes slightly, studying the little girl in front of her.

“Mila?” she called softly.

No response.

Alexia’s brows furrowed, concern creeping in. Mila was rarely ever quiet, let alone hesitant around her.

“Come here, pequena,” Alexia said, patting her lap.

Finally, Mila took small steps toward her, her usual confidence replaced by shyness. She climbed onto Alexia’s lap, wrapping her arms around her neck in a tight hug before pulling back slightly.

“Tia… I have a question,” Mila mumbled.

Alexia smirked, tilting her head. “A question? That sounds serious.”

Mila nodded solemnly.

“Okay,” Alexia said, gently brushing a few strands of hair from Mila’s face. “Ask away.”

Mila took a deep breath, playing with the hem of Alexia’s training shirt. “This week is the semifinals.”

Alexia chuckled. “Oh really? I had no idea.”

Mila giggled, but her nervousness quickly returned. She hesitated for a moment, then finally said, “I want to be your mascot.”

For the first time in a long time, Alexia was truly caught off guard. She blinked, her usual intensity softening into pure surprise.

She had thought about this before, of course. She had watched Mila walk out onto the pitch as a mascot for her moms, for Caroline, for Esmee, Frido, and Kika. And while Alexia had secretly dreamed of having Mila by her side one day, she never wanted to pressure her. She had been waiting—waiting for Mila to come to her.

And now, here she was, asking all on her own.

A slow, wide smile spread across Alexia’s face. Without hesitation, she stood up, lifting Mila into her arms effortlessly.

“You want to be my mascot?” she asked, her voice filled with warmth.

Mila nodded eagerly. “Yes!”

Alexia let out a joyful laugh and tossed Mila up into the air, catching her as the little girl giggled uncontrollably. “Of course, you can!” she said, pressing a loud kiss to Mila’s cheek.

Then, still holding her niece, Alexia turned toward the other players in the gym. “MILA IS GOING TO BE MY MASCOT!” she announced proudly.

Her teammates laughed, some clapping, others shaking their heads in amusement. It was rare to see Alexia like this—so open, so unguarded. But with Mila, she was always like this. Always soft. Always full of love.

---

The tunnel was filled with tension, the anticipation of the match pressing down on everyone. Barcelona was minutes away from stepping onto the pitch, and the entire team was locked in.

But Alexia?

She was looking down at Mila.

Dressed in a tiny Putellas jersey, her dark hair neatly braided, Mila was practically vibrating with excitement. Her small hand was wrapped around Alexia’s, gripping tightly.

Alexia crouched down, her serious expression melting into something gentler. “Are you ready?” she asked.

Mila beamed. “Of course!”

Alexia smirked. “You think we’re going to win?”

Mila gasped, placing her hands on her hips. “Obviously! You have to score a goal for me, though.”

Alexia chuckled, shaking her head in amusement. “I’ll do my best.”

Before she could say anything else, the signal came. It was time to walk out.

Alexia took Mila’s hand again, squeezing it gently as they stepped forward. The moment they emerged from the tunnel, the stadium erupted into cheers, but all Alexia could focus on was the small figure beside her.

This—walking out with Mila, her niece, her little partner in crime—was one of the proudest moments of her life.

She could feel the cameras capturing the moment, but she didn’t care about that. All that mattered was that Mila was there, standing tall, looking up at her with nothing but admiration and love.

As the anthem played, Mila stood in front of Alexia, glancing back at her every few seconds. When it ended, she spun around and opened her arms wide.

Alexia crouched down again, embracing her tightly.

“Good luck, Tia,” Mila whispered.

Alexia kissed the top of her head. “Thank you, mi nina.”

Mila was led off to the bench, where she sat with some of her other honorary aunts.

---

The final whistle blew. Barcelona had won.

Alexia was shaking hands with the opposing players, still catching her breath, when she heard it.

“TIA!”

She turned just in time to see Mila sprinting toward her at full speed.

Alexia barely had time to react before the little girl launched herself at her. Without hesitation, Alexia caught her, lifting her effortlessly into her arms.

“You did it!” Mila cheered. “You scored!”

Alexia grinned, pressing another kiss to Mila’s cheek. “Of course, I did.” She tapped Mila’s nose. “You gave me good luck.”

Together, they made their way around the stadium, applauding the fans. Mila never left Alexia’s side, her little arms wrapped around Alexia’s neck, her head resting on her shoulder.

For Alexia, victories were always special.

But this one?

This one, with Mila by her side?

This one was perfect.

I-I don't know what to say anymore... so good🔥👀

You're a highly successful basketball player who has just been transferred to Barcelona's women's team. The number 11 holds deep personal significance for you. Among the spectators is none other than football superstar Alexia Putellas, synonymous with the number 11 in Barça history, watching from the sidelines.

What starts as mutual admiration quickly turns into something more, fuelled by weeks of playful yet intense online flirting. The chemistry between you and Alexia becomes undeniable.

Alexia had just flipped the game on you.

The picture sat on your screen, daring you to respond.

No words. No caption. Just her.

And now, for the first time, you were the one caught off guard.

You could feel the heat creeping up your neck as you stared at the image, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. She knew exactly what she was doing. The sweat, the sports bra, the way her abs were tensed just enough to make sure you noticed.

You inhaled deeply, refusing to let her see that she had won.

Slowly, deliberately, you typed out a response.

You: Now who’s playing a dangerous game?

The dots appeared almost instantly.

Alexia: I don’t play games.

Oh, she was good.

You exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking your head.

She had turned the tables completely, and now the ball was in your court. So, you did what you did best. You pushed back.

You opened Instagram, swiped through your camera roll, and found a picture you had taken after your last game—a locker room shot, post-win, your jersey off, muscles still tight from the effort.

Then, with the most casual audacity you could muster, you posted it to your story with a simple caption:

"Game on."

It didn’t take long for the internet to notice.

Your notifications exploded within seconds, fans losing their minds, digging up your previous interactions with Alexia, connecting the dots. Then Alexia’s name popped up in your story views. She had seen it. But she didn’t comment. Didn’t like it. Nothing. You waited.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Fifteen.

Then, just as you were about to assume she wouldn’t bite, a new notification appeared.

Alexia: Careful. You might not like what happens next.

Your heartbeat kicked up a notch.

Because suddenly, this wasn’t just fun anymore.

It was something else entirely.

Alexia’s message sat on your screen, taunting you.

Careful. You might not like what happens next.

Your pulse ticked up a notch. Was that a warning? A threat? Or something else entirely?

You weren’t sure, but you weren’t about to back down.

You: That a promise?

You watched the typing bubbles appear, disappear, and then appear again.

Then nothing.

She left you on read.

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. She wanted you to sit with it, to wonder, to wait. Fine. Two could play that game.

The next day, you were locked in, throwing yourself into training like you had something to prove. Your team had a huge matchup coming up, and if you were going to make a statement, it needed to be on the court, not just online.

But even as you ran drills, lifted weights, and took shot after shot, your mind kept drifting back to her.

And then, as if the universe was playing along, you got a text.

Not from Alexia.

From a teammate.

Teammate: Thought you’d want to know—Putellas is here.

You froze, gripping the water bottle in your hands.

Alexia was where?

You: At our training?

Teammate: Nah. She’s just hanging out in the facility. Not even trying to be subtle about it.

You swallowed, quickly typing back.

You: Alone?

Teammate: With a couple of her teammates, but she keeps looking toward the court. 

You rolled your eyes, but your stomach flipped. Alexia wasn’t just watching from a distance anymore. She was here. You exhaled, running a towel over your face before heading back onto the court. If she wanted a show, you’d give her one.

For the next hour, you went off. Pushing harder. Playing sharper. Draining shots like it was second nature. The energy was different today, and your teammates noticed. And every time you stole a glance toward the sidelines, you caught her watching. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. But her eyes never left you.

So, at the end of training, still buzzing with adrenaline, you decided to test her. As you walked off the court, towel slung over your shoulder, you let your gaze find hers steady, unflinching. And then, with deliberate ease, you pulled your jersey off, wiping sweat from your face, making sure she saw. You didn’t look back as you left. But you felt her eyes on you the entire time.

You didn’t check your phone right away. Not because you weren’t curious—because you knew she would text. You took your time. Showered. Changed. Hung around in the locker room longer than necessary, letting the anticipation build.

By the time you finally picked up your phone, there it was.

Alexia: That wasn’t very subtle.

A smirk tugged at your lips.

You: Neither was showing up to my training.

The dots appeared immediately.

Alexia: Didn’t realise I needed permission to be there.

You: You don’t.

You: But let’s not pretend you were there for anything other than me.

She didn’t deny it.

Instead, another message came through.

Alexia: Is that what you think?

You leaned back against your locker, debating your next move.

Then, you went for the kill.

You: I don’t think, I know.

You sent it. Watched the screen. And for the first time, Alexia didn’t have an immediate response. You laughed quietly to yourself, tossing your phone into your bag. Maybe, just maybe, you’d finally flipped the game on her again. But as you made your way out of the facility, the sound of footsteps approaching behind you made you slow down.

You already knew who it was before you turned around. Alexia stood there, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

You raised an eyebrow. “Couldn’t even wait to text back?”

Her lips twitched, like she was trying not to smirk. “You think you have me all figured out, don’t you?”

You shrugged, playing it cool. “I think you like the chase.”

Alexia took a step closer. “And what if I do?”

The tension stretched tight between you, charged, almost unbearable.

You didn’t move. Neither did she.

Then, with a slight tilt of her head, she murmured, “Careful. You might not like what happens next.”

The same words she had texted you before. Your breath caught for half a second.

But you didn’t back down. You leaned in slightly, just enough to make her wonder if you’d close the distance.

Then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, you whispered “Try me.”

Alexia’s breath hitched, just barely, but you caught it.

You saw the flicker in her eyes, the way they darkened, the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips like she was considering it—like she was fighting it. For a second, you thought she might pull away. She didn’t. She moved.

Or maybe you both did, drawn together like magnets finally giving in to the pull that had been there for weeks.

Her hands gripped your hoodie, fingers digging in as your lips crashed together, hot and desperate. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was everything unsaid, everything built up, everything you’d been daring each other to do spilling over at once. Alexia kissed like she played—controlled, purposeful, but with a fire underneath that threatened to burn through all of it.

Your back hit the nearest wall before you even realised she was pushing you, pressing into you, her body flush against yours like she needed to feel every inch of you, like she had something to prove. You let her. Let her take, let her press harder, let her hands slide down your sides and grip your hips like she wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon.

Your fingers tangled in her hair, tugging just enough to make her groan into your mouth, and the sound sent a spark down your spine, heat pooling low in your stomach. She nipped at your bottom lip, teasing, testing, and you answered by flipping the dynamic, spinning her so her back hit the wall this time.

She let out a soft gasp, but it melted into a smirk. Like she had expected nothing less. Like she wanted this. The tension, the fight for control, the way neither of you were willing to be the first to break. Your lips met again, harder, deeper, both of you pushing, pulling, matching each other with every move, hands exploring, gripping, learning.

You felt her exhale against your mouth, shaky, like she was finally giving in to something she’d been trying to hold back. And for the first time since this whole thing started—you both stopped pretending.

Stopped pretending this was just a game.

Stopped pretending you didn’t want this.

Stopped pretending you hadn’t already lost to each other.

When you finally pulled back, your breath mingling with hers, Alexia’s eyes searched yours, still heavy-lidded, still burning.

She swallowed, voice rough. “You gonna run again?”

You smirked, brushing your thumb over her jaw. “Not this time.”

Alexia’s fingers curled around the front of your hoodie like she wasn’t ready to let you go just yet—not that you were going anywhere. Your breaths were heavy, mingling in the space between you, both of you still pressed against the wall, still tangled in the tension neither of you had any interest in easing.

You could feel the heat of her body, the way her chest rose and fell rapidly, the slight tremor in her hands where they clutched at you. You knew you had her. But the problem was—she had you too.

Your thumb brushed against her jaw again, slow, teasing, but you could feel the way her pulse raced under your touch. You tilted your head, voice low, daring. “So what now, capitana?”

Her grip on you tightened slightly at the nickname. Her gaze flickered, sharp and unreadable, before her lips quirked into the kind of smirk that promised trouble. Alexia leaned in, her lips just barely grazing yours, her breath warm against your skin. “That depends…”

You swallowed, your own breath hitching. “On?”

Her fingers traced down the front of your hoodie, slow, deliberate, like she was making a decision in real time. Then, she leaned into your ear, voice like a damn challenge. “…how badly you want me.”

Your restraint snapped. Your hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her into you again, lips crashing together, hotter, hungrier this time. She met you with the same intensity, her body moulding into yours as your fingers dug into her hips, pulling her impossibly closer.

There was nothing careful about it.

No hesitation. No second-guessing.

Just hands and lips and the kind of desperation that came from weeks of pushing and pulling and daring each other to break first. Alexia’s hands slipped under your hoodie, palms skimming your sides, nails dragging lightly over your skin in a way that sent a shiver down your spine.

Your lips parted just enough for her to deepen the kiss, and the way she took it—like she had every right to—had heat pooling low in your stomach.

She had always played with control, but right now, you weren’t sure who was controlling who.

And for once? You didn’t care.

The sound of a door opening down the hallway made you both freeze. Reality crashed back in, hard and unwelcome, but neither of you pulled away completely.

Your lips were still inches apart, breaths still heavy, fingers still gripping onto each other like neither of you wanted to be the first to let go. Alexia swallowed, her eyes flickering between your lips and your gaze, like she was debating whether or not to just say screw it and pull you back in.

Your own pulse thundered in your ears, your body screaming at you to ignore whatever was happening outside this bubble and just take her. But then the moment shattered further when a voice called out, closer this time.

“Alexia?”

You recognized it immediately—one of her teammates.

She cursed under her breath, closing her eyes briefly before finally stepping back, the loss of her warmth making your skin prickle. You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to do the same. She looked at you, something unreadable in her expression, something unfinished lingering between you.

Then, she smirked—just slightly, just enough to let you know this wasn’t over. Not even close. And as she walked away, leaving you standing there, pulse still racing, body still burning, one thing was painfully clear you had just crossed the point of no return.

The drive home felt eternal. Every red light a punishment, every car in front of you moving at a glacial pace. Your fingers drummed restlessly against the steering wheel, your body still humming with unresolved tension.

You could still feel her—the pressure of her lips, the drag of her nails, the way her body had melded against yours like she'd been designed to fit there. The phantom sensation of her hands gripping your hoodie haunted you, made your skin burn where she'd touched.

When you finally reached your apartment, you barely remembered closing the door behind you before collapsing onto your couch, exhaling a breath you felt like you'd been holding since she walked away.

Your phone burned a hole in your pocket. You wanted to text her. You needed to text her. But what would you even say?

So about that kiss...

When can I see you again?

I can't stop thinking about your hands on me.

None of it felt right. All of it felt desperate. And you weren't about to let her know just how completely she'd unraveled you.

You tossed your phone aside, running your hands over your face. This wasn't just about winning anymore. This wasn't even about the game you'd been playing. This was about the way she'd looked at you right before her lips touched yours—hungry, determined, like she'd been fighting this for as long as you had.

Your phone buzzed, the sound cutting through your thoughts like a knife. You reached for it, heart hammering, expecting—hoping—it was her.

It wasn't.

Just a notification from the team about tomorrow's training schedule. You sighed, dropping your phone back onto the couch. She was making you wait. Again. But this time, it felt different. This time, it wasn't just teasing. It was calculated. She was letting you stew in it, making you replay every moment, every touch, every taste.

And it was working. You couldn't focus on anything else. Not the upcoming game, not your training, not even the fact that your apartment was a mess and you hadn't eaten since lunch.

All you could think about was Alexia. Finally, just as you were about to give in and text her first, your phone lit up.

Alexia: I’m at Red, come see me

Not a question. A statement. Your pulse quickened, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. Still so damn bossy. You waited a moment, letting her experience the same anticipation she'd put you through, before typing back.

You: Is that an order, capitana?

The dots appeared immediately.

Alexia: Would you prefer if it was?

Heat crept up your neck. She was good at this. Too good.

You: I'll be there soon.

Alexia: I know.

The club was packed, bodies pressed together, music pulsing through the air like a heartbeat. You scanned the crowd, searching for her among the sea of faces, the dim lighting making it harder to spot anyone specific.

Your phone buzzed in your hand.

Alexia: VIP section. Left side.

"Like, it still looks like a car! Just… also like it needs a nap. And a therapist." 😂😂😂

Car Kiss

The moment your car collides with his, two things hit you harder than the airbag that just exploded in your face:

1. This was absolutely not your fault. (Technically.)

2. You did not deserve this.

For a second, everything is still. Your hands are locked around the wheel, heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. The scent of burnt fabric and chemicals fills the car, the deployed airbag sagging pathetically in your lap like it just gave up on life.

Then—

"Are you fucking serious right now?!"

A voice—loud, pissed, and very much alive—cuts through your haze.

Your pulse stumbles.

Right. The other driver.

Slowly, stiffly, you peel your fingers off the wheel, every nerve in your body still humming with leftover adrenaline. The heat outside is relentless, pressing against the windshield, turning the inside of the car into an oven. Your skin feels sticky, your dress clinging uncomfortably as you try to process the disaster you just walked into.

You force yourself to move. The door groans as you push it open, and the second you step out, the sun slams into you like it's personally offended by your existence.

The man standing by the other car is fuming.

He's tall, broad, dressed in a crisp white button-down that’s now slightly wrinkled—probably from the sheer force of his frustration. His tie is loosened, his hands are on his head, and his expression is pure disbelief.

"You weren’t even looking!" he accuses, waving a hand toward the wreckage like it’s some kind of crime scene.

You inhale slowly, adjusting your sunglasses, trying to summon even a shred of calm. "Okay, first of all—let’s not jump to accusations."

His nostrils flare. "Look. At. My. Car."

You do.

And—okay. Yeah. It’s… seen better days. The bumper is hanging on by a miracle, the front crumpled in like a crushed soda can.

Then you turn to Alexia’s car.

And feel actual fear for the first time.

The front end looks exhausted. Like it’s seen things and would like to never be perceived again. The airbag is fully deployed, slumped over the steering wheel in silent, tragic judgment. The scent of burnt chemicals still lingers in the air.

You swallow hard. Maybe you should’ve just stayed home today.

"Are you even listening?!" the guy snaps, dragging a hand down his face. "You literally just crashed into me, and you’re acting like—"

"Okay, I hear you," you interrupt, forcing a smile. "I do. But, like… have you ever tried deep breathing? It’s amazing for stressful situations."

His eye twitches. "We're calling insurance."

You're already pulling out your phone. "Great idea!"

Of course, you’re not calling insurance.

You're calling her.

Alexia picks up after two rings.

"Bebé” Her voice is soft, familiar, but there’s an edge to it—like she already knows.

You hesitate.

The airbag. The crumpled hood. The fact that this isn’t even your car.

"Before I say anything," you start, voice syrupy sweet, "just know that I love you."

Silence.

Then—

"What did you do?"

You glance at the guy, who is still pacing beside his ruined car, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like legal threats.

You wince. "Hypothetically speaking, if something happened to your car—"

The silence sharpens.

"—not saying it did, but if it had a little accident—"

"Define ‘little.’"

You peek back at the scene. The wreckage. The airbag’s limp, tragic existence. The guy still looking like he’s one second away from suing you for emotional distress.

"Like… a kiss. A car kiss. Just a very unfortunate, high-speed one."

"You said you needed my car for work."

"I did. And I used it so responsibly. Except for this… one tiny—okay, medium—moment."

She exhales, long and sharp. "Is it bad?"

You hesitate. "...Define bad?"

"Is it drivable?"

"Technically."

"Is anything hanging off?"

"...Define ‘hanging.’"

"You’re actually unreal."

"It’s mostly cosmetic!" you argue. "Like, it still looks like a car! Just… also like it needs a nap. And a therapist."

"Where are you?"

"Outside work. I just parked. But the guy’s yelling about insurance and—wait, hold on—" You lower the phone. "Sir, are we exchanging info, or are you just gonna keep pacing?"

He glares. "Someone’s paying for this."

You sigh, lifting the phone back. "Ale, babe. Help."

"Send me a picture."

"...Are you sure? Wouldn’t you rather hear about it first?"

"Now."

The call ends.

You groan and snap a photo of the wreckage. Then, because you’re already in deep shit, you send another one.

Of your boobs—one of the many emergency nudes you keep saved, because honestly, who doesn’t have a backup plan?

Her reply is immediate.

Alexia:

You are actually deranged.

A few more seconds. Then—

Alexia:

I’m leaving training. Stay there.

Uh-oh.

Fifteen minutes later, an SUV pulls up fast.

Too fast.

The tires bite into the pavement, rolling to a sharp, precise stop. The door swings open, and she steps out.

And suddenly, the heat of the sun feels second to the way she carries herself.

Alexia looks dangerous in the way only someone completely in control can. She’s still in her training gear—dark compression shorts hugging her legs, a fitted Barça tee damp with sweat. Her hair is tied back, loose strands framing her face in a way that should not look as good as it does. She shuts the car door with purpose, her sharp gaze sweeping the scene like she’s assessing an opponent.

First, the damage.

Then, the guy.

Then, you.

You smile delicately, clasping your hands together like the very picture of innocence. "Hi, my love."

"Are you hurt?"

The question takes you by surprise.

You blink. "Huh?"

Her eyes soften—just barely. "Are you hurt?" she repeats.

Your stomach does something weird.

You clear your throat. "No. Just—bruised ego."

She nods once, accepting that, before turning to the guy.

"We’ll handle this through insurance," she states, her tone cool, absolute.

The guy, who had previously been full of righteous anger, suddenly looks… uncertain. "Well, yeah, obviously, but—"

"Give me your details," she cuts in, leaving zero room for argument. "The tow truck is already on its way. We’ll handle the paperwork."

You glance at your phone, realizing you missed the call she must’ve made while driving.

The guy hesitates, then sighs in defeat. "Fine."

Alexia doesn’t waste another second. She turns to you, jaw tight. "Passenger seat."

You hesitate. "I can explai—"

"Passenger. Seat."

Your stomach flips.

Something about the way she says it—calm, but final—sends a thrill through you. You don’t argue this time.

The tow truck arrives as you settle in, the driver stepping out and immediately greeting Alexia with a handshake. She’s already handling it, already making the process smooth, efficient. You watch her through the windshield, chin propped on your hand.

Eventually, she gets back in. Silence settles between you as she pulls onto the road. It lingers for a while, heavy with everything that just happened.

Inside the car, you watch her, awed despite yourself. The way she carries herself. The way people listen to her. Honestly, kind of hot for someone who’s about to yell at you.

You reach over, fingers brushing against hers on the console. Her grip loosens slightly.

"You're mad," you murmur.

She exhales through her nose. "You sent me nudes after crashing my car."

You grin. "Did it help?"

Her lips twitch—just slightly. "You're impossible."

You smile. "But you’re not mad about the boobs, right?" A pause. Then, carefully—

"You crash my car and send me nudes." She shakes her head, half in disbelief, half in something else you can’t quite place. "Honestly. Who raised you?"

You shrug. "A woman with taste."

A pause. Then, carefully—

"Your driving privileges are suspended."

You gasp. "You can’t do that."

"Watch me."

"Babe. My freedom."

She glances over, lips twitching. "I’ll think about it."

You grin, leaning in, voice low, teasing. "I can be very persuasive."

She hums, eyes still on the road but amusement curling at the edges of her mouth.

You're a highly successful basketball player who has just been transferred to Barcelona's women's team. The number 11 holds deep personal significance for you. Among the spectators is none other than football superstar Alexia Putellas, synonymous with the number 11 in Barça history, watching from the sidelines.

What starts as mutual admiration quickly turns into something more, fuelled by weeks of playful yet intense online flirting. The chemistry between you and Alexia becomes undeniable.

You walked into the locker room for a home game, you eyed Maya and Liv in the corner giggling away as you walked through the locker room to your spec. They were scrolling through Twitter reading comments, laughing at posts, and occasionally shoving their phones in your face.

“Oh, this one’s gold,” Liv snickered. “‘Alexia Putellas watching from the gym window like a Disney princess longing for her forbidden love.’”

Maya nearly choked on her drink. “They did not say that.” Liv turned the screen so she could see. “Oh, they definitely did.”

You shook your head, suppressing a smirk. “You two have way too much free time.”

“And you have way too much restraint,” Liv shot back. “I mean, come on, you could really mess with her right now.”

Maya nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly! She’s already halfway to losing her mind over you, might as well push her the rest of the way.”

You leaned back, sipping your drink. Liv nodding “Oh, 100%. You should’ve taken your shirt off sooner.”

You smirked. “I like to keep things interesting.”

Maya and Liv exchanged a mischievous look before both leaning in closer, eager to fuel the playful tension between you and Alexia. “Alright, alright,” Maya grinned. “But you have to admit, you’re making her suffer a little. Just imagine, if you gave her just a little more…” she trailed off, letting her words hang in the air like an open invitation.

You raised an eyebrow, trying to keep your cool. “I’m not here to make anyone suffer.”

Liv gave a playful snort. “Sure, sure. Just don’t pretend you don’t enjoy the game. I mean, she’s practically dying to get you alone.”

A small, knowing smile tugged at your lips. “Maybe, but she’s gotta work for it.”

Maya leaned back, eyeing you with a mixture of admiration and curiosity. “You know, you’re playing this way too well. I’m not sure whether to be impressed or worried for her.”

You shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s all about balance. Can’t let her think she has it all figured out.”

Liv raised her eyebrows, leaning back on her chair. “Well, if she’s watching through the gym window like some Disney princess, you might want to start acting like Prince Charming soon.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Maybe I’ll just let her keep guessing.”

The room fell into a comfortable silence, the teasing atmosphere fading as you settled back into your spot. But as you glanced across the locker room, your gaze lingered for just a moment longer than usual, wondering if this game was really just a game at all.

This wasn’t basketball. This was a warzone disguised as a game.  

Madrid came to hurt you tonight. Not just with the score but with every shove, every elbow, every late hit the refs somehow missed. And if you hadn’t already known how dirty they played, you would’ve thought they had a personal vendetta against you.  

The first quarter set the tone.  

A hard screen blindsided you, knocking you off balance before you even had a chance to see who hit you. The impact rattled your chest, but you bit down on the sting and kept moving, refusing to give them the reaction they wanted.  

Then came the second quarter, and it only got worse.  

You went up for a rebound, body fully extended, only to get yanked backward mid-air. Your feet never landed properly, someone made damn sure of that. Your back hit the court with a thud, a sharp pain shooting up your spine. The whistle blew, but the damage was done.

By the third quarter, you were seething.  

Another drive, another cheap shot, this time, an elbow straight to the ribs just before you went up for a layup. The contact knocked the wind out of you, the sharp ache in your side lingering as you lined up for the free throws. You exhaled slowly, ignoring the burn in your lungs.  

Madrid played dirty.  

You played harder.  

By the fourth quarter, your body was screaming at you to stop, but there was no chance in hell you were letting them win. You pushed through, ignoring the bruises, the sore ribs, the stiffness in your back. You were tired. You were pissed off. But you weren’t done.  

And when the final buzzer rang, the only thing louder than the cheers from the crowd was the sound of your own heartbeat, still hammering in your chest.  

Your team had won. Just.

But you’d paid for it.  

You stormed off the court, ignoring the lingering stares from reporters, the murmurs from the coaching staff. You didn’t even wait for the post-game team talk. Right now, you didn’t care about anything except getting the hell out of there.  

You were beaten up, bruised, and exhausted.  

But more than anything, 

You were angry.

The locker room was dead silent.  

Your teammates had come and gone, the post-game celebrations cut short by the bruises littering your body and the tension still sitting heavy in your chest. The only sound was the distant echo of the arena outside, fans still lingering, reporters still chasing interviews.  

You sat on the bench, head resting against the cool metal of your locker, trying to breathe through the dull, aching pain radiating from your ribs. Madrid had done a number on you tonight. Every muscle in your body felt tight, sore, overworked.  

You needed ice. You needed a shower. You needed—  

A knock on the door.  

You didn’t move.  

Another knock, firmer this time. Then—  

"Are you decent?"  

You recognised the voice instantly.  

Your jaw tensed as you straightened up, wincing slightly at the sharp pull in your ribs. "Come in."  

The door pushed open, and there she was.  

Alexia.  

In casual clothes, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, her sharp eyes scanning the room before locking onto you. For a second, she just stood there, her expression unreadable.  

“You alright?”

You let out a slow exhale, wiping a hand over your face before tilting your head at her. "Why do you care?" She didn't deserve your attitude but she seemed to take it in her stride.

Alexia scoffed, stepping fully into the room and letting the door swing shut behind her. "Because I saw what they did to you out there. Looked like they were trying to take you out."  

You smirked, though it lacked your usual confidence. "Yeah? Well, they failed."  

Alexia didn’t look amused. She took another step closer, eyes flickering down to where you were still absentmindedly pressing a hand to your ribs. "That bad?"  

You rolled your eyes. "I’ve had worse."  

She didn’t seem convinced, crossing her arms as she studied you. "You sure? Because you don’t look too good."  

"Wow, thanks," you deadpanned, shifting slightly but instantly regretting it when a sharp pain shot through your side. You gritted your teeth, and Alexia noticed. Of course she did.  

"Let me see," she said, already moving forward.  

"I’m fine."  

"You’re stubborn," she shot back, unfazed.  

You leaned back slightly as she crouched in front of you, closer now, her presence filling the space between you. Her gaze flickered up to meet yours, something unreadable in her expression. "Just lift your damn shirt."  

Your breath hitched.  

Not because of the request because of the way she said it. Low. Firm. With that no-nonsense authority she carried so naturally.  

You hesitated. Then, with a quiet sigh, you relented, slowly lifting your shirt just enough to reveal the bruising already forming across your ribs.  

Alexia’s jaw tightened.  

She didn’t say anything at first, but her expression darkened, her fingers twitching at her sides like she wanted to do something but wasn’t sure what. "They really went after you."  

You simply hummed in response.

Alexia shook her head, muttering something under her breath in Spanish before exhaling sharply. "And your staff just let you sit here like this? No medics?"  

"I told them I’d deal with it."  

"Right. Because that’s smart," she shot back, sarcasm dripping from her voice.  

You smirked despite yourself. "You’re really this concerned?"  

Alexia met your gaze, unflinching. "Yes."  

The air between you shifted.  For the first time all night, you weren’t thinking about the game, the bruises, or the way your body ached. All you could think about was her. The way she was looking at you. The way she had showed up for you.  

Your voice came quieter this time. "Why?"  

She didn’t answer immediately.  

Instead, her gaze softened—just slightly, just enough for something unspoken to pass between you. "Because I don’t like seeing you like this."  

You swallowed, your heart hammering in a way that had nothing to do with the game.  

Alexia stood up slowly, taking a step back like she needed to put distance between you. "Go home, get some rest. And don’t be stupid about your recovery."  

You watched her, searching her expression for something—anything—that would tell you what this really was.  

But before you could say anything, she was already turning toward the door.  

"Alexia."  

She paused, glancing back at you over her shoulder.  

You held her gaze. "Thanks."  

She nodded once. "See you around."  

And then she was gone, leaving you alone in the locker room and with a whole new problem.  

Because now, you weren’t just pissed off about the game. Now, you were thinking about Alexia.

The locker room felt colder after Alexia left. You weren’t sure if it was because the adrenaline from the game was finally wearing off or if it was something else entirely—something to do with the way she had looked at you, the way she had shown up after a brutal game like this.  

You let out a slow breath, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees, staring at the floor as you tried to process it all.  

Alexia cared.  

She shouldn’t, not like that, not enough to show up in your locker room unannounced, demanding to see your injuries. But she did. And now, she had left just as quickly, leaving behind an unmistakable tension that wouldn’t leave your chest.  

With a shake of your head, you finally forced yourself up, wincing at the stiffness in your ribs. You needed ice. A long bath. Sleep.  

You also needed to get your mind off Alexia.  

Easier said than done.

You woke up sore.  Your ribs ached, your back was stiff, and every bruise Madrid had gifted you last night throbbed as you sat up in bed. You groaned, running a hand over your face before reaching for your phone on the nightstand.  

Notifications flooded your screen—texts from teammates, messages from your coaching staff checking in, and, of course, social media blowing up with reactions to last night’s game.  

One unread text from Alexia.  

You stared at it for a second before swiping it open.  

Alexia: You alive?

A smirk tugged at your lips as you leaned back against the pillows, thumbs hovering over the screen before you typed a reply.  

You: Barely. You gonna keep checking on me like this?

The message was delivered, and almost instantly, those three little dots appeared.  

Alexia: If you keep playing like you don’t care about your body, sí.  

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the amused grin that formed.  

You: I do care. I just have a high pain tolerance.

Alexia: Or you’re stubborn.

You: You sound like my coach.

Alexia: Maybe your coach is right.

Your smirk grew.  

You: Didn’t know you cared this much, Capitana.  

This time, there was a longer pause. You could practically see her debating how to respond, which only made you more entertained.  

Finally, the dots reappeared.  

Alexia: Don’t get used to it.

You chuckled to yourself, locking your phone and tossing it onto the bed beside you. She could say that all she wanted.  

But after last night, you weren’t sure you believed her.

The bruises from the Madrid game were still fresh, but they didn’t stop you from hitting the gym first thing in the morning. If anything, they only fuelled you more. Pushing past the ache in your ribs, you increased the speed on the treadmill, jaw tight as you focused on each stride. The game still replayed in your head, every hard foul, every shove that went uncalled. It pissed you off all over again.  

Your phone vibrated on the bench next to you, but you ignored it.  

Another buzz.  

And another.  

With a frustrated sigh, you finally hit the stop button on the treadmill and grabbed your phone. Three notifications.  

Two from your teammates.  

One from Alexia.  

You swiped them open, starting with the first one from Maya.  

Maya: You cleared for the training session later?  

The second was similar.  

Claudia: You good after last night?  

Then, Alexia’s message.  

Alexia: Did you actually rest, or are you already being stupid? 

You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head.  

You: Define stupid. 

Her response was instant.  

Alexia: If you have to ask, you already know.  

You bit back a smirk.  

You: You’re really keeping tabs on me now?

The dots appeared, then disappeared. Then appeared again.

Alexia: Someone has to.  

That one made you pause. The air between you both was changing, and neither of you had acknowledged it directly. It had been playful before, just online flirting and teasing. But now she was showing up at your games. Calling you out. Checking in.  

And you liked it. Maybe too much.  

Shaking your head, you typed back.  

You: Good to know I have Barcelona’s finest watching my every move. 

Her reply was just as quick.  

Alexia: Don’t flatter yourself.  

You chuckled, tossing your phone back onto the bench before grabbing a towel and slinging it around your neck.  

She could deny it all she wanted.  

You weren’t fooled. You weren’t the only one who noticed the shift. The fans had picked up on the lull in online interactions, but now that Alexia had subtly made her presence known again, you figured it was time to really give them something to talk about.  

After finishing your gym session, you took a mirror selfie drenched in sweat, muscles tense from the workout, towel draped around your neck. Muscles black blue and prominent on your torso and arms. You stared at the picture for a moment, debating, before typing out the caption:  

“Apparently, I need supervision. Any volunteers?” 

You hit post and locked your phone, moving on with your day, but it didn’t take long for the internet to explode.  

Thousands of comments flooded in within minutes, fans tagging Alexia, demanding a response. It took her a while, but when she finally caved, her reply was short.  

Alexiaputellas: Your decision-making is questionable. Supervision is necessary. 

That was all it took. The fans lost it, and your notifications became a never-ending stream of chaos.  

You smirked, leaning back in your chair as you typed back.  

Yourusername: Didn’t realise Barcelona offered those kinds of services.  

Her reply was instant.  

Alexiaputellas: We don’t. You’re a special case.  

That made you laugh.  

The comments kept rolling in—your teammates jumping in, her teammates fueling the fire.  

vickyylopezz._: Alexia, just admit you’re obsessed. 

MayaSmith: At this point, either date or shut up!

Random Fan: JUST DATE ALREADY! 

The engagement skyrocketed. Articles started circulating again. Even the club's official page liked the interaction, which you were excited to point out the to the PR director when you next saw him.

And you just sat back and enjoyed the show. Alexia wanted to play this game. You were more than ready to match her move for move.

Later that evening, you posted another photo—this time, a clip from your latest training session. Mid-shot, arms tense, expression sharp. The kind of picture that made it clear you weren’t just messing around.  

The caption  

“Still waiting on that supervision. Thought Barcelona was reliable.”  

You barely had time to blink before Alexia responded.  

Alexiaputellas: Some of us have actual jobs.

Your smirk grew as you fired back.  

Yourusername: Right, right. Must be tough sitting in the gym watching me train.

It was a bold move—one that let her know you saw her earlier in the day. That you knew she had been watching, even if she thought she was being subtle. And judging by the pause before her next response, you had definitely caught her off guard. She tried to hide at the back but by wearing a cap and sunglasses she stuck out like a saw thumb.  

When she finally replied, it was much simpler than you expected.  

 Alexiaputellas: Watch yourself.

It wasn’t her usual witty comeback. It was more like a warning. Which only made you push further.  

Yourusername: Or what? You’ll come supervise me yourself?

Again, the pause. The fans were losing their minds in the comments, but all you cared about was whether or not Alexia was going to take the bait.   

Alexiaputellas: Try me.  

Your breath caught for a second, but you covered it with a smirk.  

She was getting bolder. You were definitely not backing down now.

Alexia’s last message sat on your screen, daring you to make the next move.  

Try me.  

It was bold, even for her. You weren’t sure if she meant it as a challenge, a warning, or something else entirely. But one thing was clear—this game you had been playing wasn’t just harmless flirting anymore.  

You were both toeing the line. So, naturally, you decided to see just how close you could get.  

You typed back.  

Yourusername: Careful, Alexia. People might start thinking you actually want to supervise me.

The fans were already running wild with speculation, so you figured you might as well fuel the fire.  

For a while, there was nothing. No reply.  

Then, a notification popped up.  

Not a text.  

Not a comment.  

A like.  

Alexia had liked your message but said nothing.  

Which only made it worse. The internet exploded again, theories running rampant in your mentions. Was she ignoring you? Was she flustered? Was she plotting her next move? Had you taken it offline like the fans already speculated you had with the interactions fewer and further between.

Then, finally, a response. Privately

Alexia: Some things don’t need to be said.  

Your stomach did something it definitely shouldn’t have, but you ignored it. You refused to be the one caught off guard.  

You: So you’re admitting it?

Alexia: Admitting what?

You huffed a laugh. She was good.  

You: That you want to supervise me. Personally.

The three little dots appeared. Stopped. Appeared again.  

Then, finally—  

Alexia: You talk too much. 

That one hit differently. Maybe because you could almost hear her saying it, almost see the way she’d look at you if this conversation was happening in person. Maybe because, for the first time, it wasn’t just playful. There was something else underneath it now.  

And for the first time, you weren’t sure who was actually winning this game. You had her cornered.  Or at least, that’s what you thought.  

Alexia’s last message sat on your screen, just taunting you.  

You talk too much. 

It wasn’t playful like before. It was something else. Something heavier.  You weren’t sure why it made your skin feel warm or why your mind kept replaying it as if it meant more than just shutting you down. You could answer right away. Keep the back and forth going, keep the fans screaming, keep playing this game where neither of you admitted anything but made sure everyone knew something was happening.  

But instead, you waited. For the first time since this whole thing started, you made Alexia wonder what you were thinking.  

An hour passed.  

Then two.  

The internet had already dissected every interaction from earlier, debating what it all meant. But you said nothing.  

Then, late that night, a message appeared.  

Alexia: Cat got your tongue?  

A slow smirk tugged at your lips. She had cracked first. Now you had the upper hand.  

You: Just making you wonder. Seems like it worked.

The typing bubbles appeared immediately. Stopped.  

Started again.  

Alexia: Dangerous game you’re playing. 

Oh, this was fun.  

You: Good thing I like danger. 

This time, she didn’t reply right away. You imagined her staring at the message, deciding whether she wanted to take this further or let it settle.  

But Alexia had never been one to back down from a challenge.  

Minutes later, a new notification popped up. Not a text. A picture.  

You clicked on it, and—

It was a picture of her.  

A post-training one, similar to yours from before. Alexia was in a sports bra, abs tight, sweat glistening along her skin.  

No caption.  

No words.  

Just that.

Just to you.  

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.  

You had started this game, but now she was playing by her own rules.  

And for once…  

You had no idea what to say.

"Porto l'escut al pit"

Le esta compitiendo a Claudia quien es la más culé

A mi lo de manifestar no se me da. Pero que hoy sea un buen partido para ella y se cae un golito de sus botas mas que feliz.

🥹❤️‍🩹

alexia said it best here in her post-match comments:

"it's difficult to make an analysis straight out of the game, but in the end we weren't accurate. even though we've won by big scores before, real madrid is a good team. we're fucked. a defeat always leaves you feeling affected, but this is part of sport, and that's why we never take victory for granted.

it was a move i was convinced wasn't offside because caro was the one who gave me the pass before i played it in. the referee said it was offside on her part, so it was impossible. that was in the 80th minute; it would have certainly been a determining factor, but there are 80 minutes before then to improve and see what we did well to enhance them and what we did poorly to correct them.

we did something wrong, and the opponent did something right. we're now 4 points ahead, but we have to get back to picking up 3 points next week."

Indexical Reminder of a Morning Well Spent

i sent a little of this to @wosofutbolfan and it apparently passed the test so here it is

-

The goal was fucking beautiful.

A pure, uncut masterclass in footballing telepathy.

Alexia had barely looked before she whipped the ball into the box. You were already moving, already there, like you had a GPS tracker embedded under your skin, waiting for the exact moment to strike. One touch, a ruthless finish, and the net rippled like it was bowing to your greatness. The crowd went feral. Commentators lost their minds. Pundits called it art.

Now, in the changing room, your teammates are still reeling.

“Okay, but what the actual hell was that?” Mapi demands, pulling off her tape.

Pina shakes her head, throwing a towel over her shoulder. “It’s not normal. You don’t even look at each other. It’s like—like she breathes, and you just know.”

Patri squints at you. “Do you practice that at home?”

Irene folds her arms. “Be honest. Do you two have, like, a shared consciousness?”

Kika points at you. “Are you some kind of footballing hive mind? Because I refuse to believe that was just instinct.”

You stretch out your legs, completely unfazed. “It because we fuck all the time.”

Silence.

Alexia, who had been mid-sip of her water, chokes.

Coughs. Gags. Almost dies.

Mapi slaps the locker and cackles. “That explains a lot.”

Pina’s eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

Patri grips her towel like it’s a seatbelt. “What does that have to do with football?”

You shrug. “Everything.”

Alexia is still spluttering. “No, no, no. Stop.”

You ignore her completely. “When you have sex as often as we do, you develop a kind of… connection.”

Alexia lunges, slamming a hand over your mouth. “Don’t you dare.”

Mapi grins. “Oh, no. She has to.”

Alexia glares at her. “She doesn’t.”

Kika leans forward. “No, I think she should.”

Pina nods, barely suppressing her laughter. “For scientific purposes.”

Patri crosses her arms. “If we’re going to be subjected to your disgusting public displays of on-pitch chemistry, we deserve the full explanation.”

You lick Alexia’s palm.

She yelps and jerks away like she’s been electrocuted.

You wipe your mouth. “As I was saying—”

“No. No,” Alexia pleads.

You continue, unfazed. “I know her body. Every inch of it. The way her muscles shift. The exact moment she tenses before she—”

Alexia actually grabs you. Tries to physically drag you away. “We’re leaving.”

You dodge, side-stepping like you’re evading a stubborn defender. “I just mean, when you’ve had someone clench around your fingers enough times—”

Alexia lunges again.

You bolt, darting around the physio table.

Mapi screams with laughter. “OH MY GOD.”

Kika has tears in her eyes. “Please, keep going. This is the greatest thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

Alexia is desperate. “Stop talking.”

You dodge her again. “It’s pure instinct at this point. Like how I know exactly when she’s about to—”

Alexia dives. Misses.

Pina has collapsed onto the floor. “I cannot breathe.”

Patri is crying. “Make it stop.”

Irene wipes her face. “No, keep going, I need every detail.”

Mapi is wheezing. “Wait, wait, wait—are you saying that every time you score a goal off her pass—”

You smirk. “It’s basically an extension of our sex life, yes.”

Alexia grabs you, shakes you like she’s trying to reset your brain. “You. Are. Deranged.”

You grin. “Fong pretend you don’t love it.”

She shoves you. “I’m not pretending, I loathe it.”

Mapi is practically convulsing with laughter. “You’re telling me every single assist—”

“—is just an echo of last night’s activities? Oh definitely.”

Kika collapses onto the bench. “I need an exorcism.”

Alexia physically hauls you toward the showers. “We are leaving this conversation.”

You plant your feet. “Wait, wait, just let me finish—”

“No.”

“I’m just saying, it’s good motivation, you know? The more I score, the more assists she gets, the better the reward.”

Mapi screeches.

Pina is on the floor.

Patri is pleading with the universe.

Kika throws her water bottle at you. “LEAVE.”

Alexia shoves you through the doorway. “You’re done.”

Mapi wheezes. “This is the best day of my life.”

Alexia looks at the team like she’s asking for divine intervention. “This is the worst day of mine.”